


Little Thief

by wolfdragonful



Series: Scars and Swords [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Canon, Aramis the Sharpshooter, Athos is thick, Athos the Drunk, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Holy fuck this thing's long, Major Spoilers, Multi, Other, POV Multiple, Porthos the Brawler, Spoilers, Two Original Female Characters - Freeform, d'Artagnan the Thief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 00:30:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 53
Words: 135,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2408540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfdragonful/pseuds/wolfdragonful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate Reality where Athos, Porthos, and Aramis all knew d'Artagnan under slightly different circumstances. Instead of meeting him after his father's death, Athos knows him from when he was a toddler and Porthos and Aramis meet him four years before the massacre at Savoy. (There are spoilers for episodes)</p>
<p>Originally posted on FanFiction.net (same pseudonym and title)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Meeting: Athos

**Author's Note:**

> I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's Musketeers. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.
> 
> Ages in this chapter:  
> Athos: 19  
> d'Artagnan: 2

At nineteen, Athos knew his lot in life. He had had the luck of being born to a well-off family, had the love and trust of the people he would preside over, and had no difficulties with his studies. He had a brother, whom he loved deeply, and his family had their health. There was little question as to what he would become when he came of age. He knew his lot, how lucky he was to have it, and he reveled in it.

By reveling, he meant going to places no one knew his name and acting as if he too were of the commonwealth. His brother laughed at him while his father feared robbery or attack. Athos found the activity to be a grounding experience. He had once thought the commonwealth to be pitied until he had been left in a situation requiring anonymity. He’d met an old farmer who had been kind enough to guide him to the correct road and even to lend a bit of money. Until he had returned home, he’d pretended to be a person of no consequence. It kept him safe as well as availed him to unexpected revelations on a variety of subjects; himself mainly.

Besides, Gascony was supposed to be beautiful in spring, with the farms producing and the people giddy in the sunlight as gossip passed their lips by. He had to repay that farmer for his kindness as well. He couldn’t let another year pass without giving the man back some reward. He smiled at the memory of the old man raving about his wife who, at the time, had been pregnant. Athos had already promised himself to over exaggerate how much help the child’s father had been to both the wife and child.

As he and his horse climbed over the final crest of hill that overlooked the wide open land of Gascony, Athos wondered what sort of woman the farmer’s wife was as well as what sort of child they had brought to the world. He hoped both would be, at least, as considerate of others as the farmer.

The man had struck Athos as rather wise in his own way. The way others had greeted him as he’d guided Athos had shown he was well respected as well as, possibly, influential to those around him. The respect had been earned as well, from what Athos had seen. After the display, he had set about making himself to be more like the farmer which had led to the trust he currently held.

A refreshing feeling.

As expected, the village Lupiac in Gascony was a true vision of a peaceful countryside village. Rolling farmland was dotted sparsely by quaint homes with people meandering about the roads, baskets in hand. Athos pressed his heels to his horse, urging it to a trot down the winding road in to town. He knew where he was headed but it wouldn’t hurt to have a quick bite of food from a shop in the tiny marketplace that clamored with the sounds of bargaining, dogs, and poultry that had wandered free of a pen.

He handed his horse to a smithy, giving the man a bit more coin than strictly necessary, and weaved his way through the gossiping crowds. The fruit he picked from a pallet was sweet and succulent on his tongue as he wandered about, eyeing the goods on display and the people around him. Everyone wore sturdy cloths and leathers but there were a few men carrying knives swords on their belts.

The blades looked uncared for as well; a mark of an unprotected township that held no fear in its heart. There was hardly anything here that would be seen as valuable enough to warrant the attentions of bandits. The people therefore had no need for armaments even if they did own them. Athos almost found himself wishing he’d been born to Lupiac of Gascony as he strolled through the market.

He was making his way back to the smithy to collect his horse so as to travel to his destination when a cart rumbled up. The black horses pulling the cart were field animals with massive chests and towering backs and heads. They were well trained for carting and Athos doubted they were incapable plow animals if they were owned by someone in Gascony. The creatures huffed and snorted as their driver reined them to a halt, his familiar face worn from a life of work and modest living. Athos couldn’t help but smile as the man spotted him from the cart seat.

“My god Boy!” the man cried out with a hearty laugh that bubbled from his belly. “Lost again?”

A few bystanders glanced their way for a moment before whispering at each other as they continued about their days. Athos tried to ignore the slight flush that heated his cheeks as a few women winked at him.

“Not this time, no,” Athos grinned. “I’m visiting this time. I have yet to thank you properly for your help.”

The old farmer snorted as he hopped from his seat, revealing a young boy with curious eyes shadowed by raven hair. Athos smiled at the boy, earning himself a shy wave in return.

“Truth be told,” the old farmer grunted out as he fussed with the harnesses on the massive horses, “I’m surprised you remember me, Boy.”

Athos shrugged, lips cocked towards his nose as if he were trying to kiss it. The comment had been expected. It was very likely that, if Athos had been anyone else, he would have forgotten old Alexandre d’Artagnan’s kindness. However, he was himself and if he had any fault, it was that he forgot very little.

“I remember you were looking forward to a child,” Athos stated with a cheeky grin. He eyed the boy who had stretched himself over the cart’s seat, belly down and tiny feet kicking in the air. The child gave a weak squeak when their eyes connected, his hands covering his face as if that would make him disappear.

Old Alexandre smiled as Athos found himself chuckling. The child peered at the two of them from between his fingers.

“Aye,” the old farmer chuckled as he wrestled the child into a sitting position and then into his arms. As soon as he was on his father’s hip, the boy clutched his father’s shirt with white knuckles and pressed his brow to the elder man’s neck.

“Shy lad,” Athos smiled with a soft gleam in his eyes that he only showed his brother.

“Scared of strangers still,” the elder murmured, a hand patting the boy’s back. “Introduce yourself, child.”

The boy gave his father a nervous, darting eyes glance before facing Athos. The young man waited as the boy warred with his father in silence, until the child glanced back at him with a quizzical look.

“Hello,” the child mumbled with a tentative wave of his hand. Athos gave the boy a grateful and reassuring smile. He was glad the boy had the courage to speak to him but knew the uncertainty that clung to the boy’s restricted movements wouldn’t be easy to rid him of.

“Hello,” he replied with a small wave of his own, his fingers bending to his unmoving palm like they were on hinges. It was then he realized he’d not taken his signet ring off. If the old farmer noticed it, he remained silent.  


“This is Charles d’Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony,” the new father beamed as he held the child close for a chaste kiss to a soft cheek.

“Well met,” Athos grinned. He held out his hand for the little child. “I am Athos.”


	2. Third Spring: Athos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's Musketeers. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.
> 
> Ages in this chapter:  
> Athos: Almost 21  
> d'Artagnan: 4

Athos enjoyed spring’s returning to France. His family had given up trying to tell him to avoid wandering far from home. He was about to become twenty-one and his wandering seemed to only bring wisdom they could praise him for gaining. Just last summer, Athos had come home and had had the smithy replace all the hinges and locks in the stables. He had pointed out worrisome aging of the latches and warned about the dangers to the children should a horse spook. He had remained quiet when his brother asked if he’d had such a thing occur on his wanderings though.

He didn’t really share what he did during his spring wanderings past that he was avoiding anything scandalous. He didn’t mention the almost four-year-old boy who greeted him with warm hugs that cradled Athos’ very heart in soft presses of tiny arms. He especially remained silent on how enraged he’d been when he’d learned a horse had spooked over the winter and nearly trampled the child he’d grown oddly fond of in the last two years. Little d’Artagnan now had a crescent shaped scar on his back left by the shod horse as its hoof clipped his right side.

It was mid-spring during his current – third – visit when he noticed just how scared he’d been the year before. D’Artagnan had been stuck inside during most of Athos’ last visit thanks to healing ribs and an understandable fear of anything with four legs that outweighed him. They had spent hours simply talking, Athos reading to him, and making guesses at what people in town were gossiping about. Now, he and d’Artagnan were under a tree behind the barn, the boy using Athos’ leg as a pillow. His shirt had ridden up to reveal the pink, raised mark that arched from the child’s spine and towards his right side. It was on his lower back and had Athos not known the cause, he may have been able to ignore it.

Instead, he stared at it and his trembling hand hovered over the scar. Athos had been acutely aware of how lucky d’Artagnan had been. Most of the horses in Lupiac were plow animals with platter-wide hooves that could crush a grown man’s skull. Everyone in the village was aware of how lucky d’Artagnan had been, having gotten so few injuries. The smithy was apologetic as well despite the boy and his father’s apparent forgiveness about the situation. The boy’s actions indicated he was over it seeing as he was all smiles and childish sunshine again. Yet, Athos knew now that the smithy was blaming himself. As he managed to skim his fingertips over the scar that resembled half of a bite mark, he knew he blamed himself for not being there and for only yelling at the smithy until the elder d’Artagnan pulled him away.

Athos’ hand flew away from the tiny body as the boy shifted into a sitting position, a hand rubbing his eyes languidly. The child yawned, arms reaching for the lower branches, his shirt rising a bit more until Athos yanked it down for him. D’Artagnan smiled at him with a blinding smile that was reserved for three people. Against the boy’s olive skin and inky hair, the smile was even brighter.

“Can we go to the market now?” d’Artagnan asked. “Papa really needs those extra seeds and Mama wants cloth for new drapes.”

Athos gave the boy a soft smile. It had become clear during his first visit that d’Artagnan’s father and mother would house him willingly as long as he looked after their son and did a few chores about the place. He’d been relegated to almost everything child friendly when d’Artagnan had started clinging to him a following him about.

“Right,” Athos chuckled as he dragged himself to his feet with a groan. While most of his time in Lupiac was spent making sure little d’Artagnan kept out of trouble, it wasn’t unheard of for him to find himself doing other chores around the farm. Yesterday had been spent rebuilding the stalls for the horses. D’Artagnan had been off with other children under the hovering eyes of the mothers.

“You sound like Papa,” d’Artagnan laughed.

“You will too,” Athos jeered back as he poked d’Artagnan’s shoulder with two fingers. “One day.”

“Never!”

Athos roared with laughter as d’Artagnan pouted at him the way a puppy pouted for not getting treats. It was almost commonplace for d’Artagnan to be equated to a puppy since he’d taken to trailing Athos’ heels during Athos’ first visit to Lupiac. It had been a surprise to the boy’s parents when it only took two days for him to warm up to Athos. Athos had been blamed of bribery through sweets which he’d denied vehemently to no avail. Especially not after he’d brought the boy a trinket this year.

As they wandered through the fabric shop, d’Artagnan played with the timepiece from his father about his neck as well as the trinket Athos had gifted him. While the timepiece was special by familial value, the trinket practically meant Athos viewed him as family. The silver fixing embossed with Athos’ family crest as well as fitted with slivers of dark blue sapphire along the outer edge. It was an almost perfect companion to his signet ring that named him the next Count de le Fère.

The two medals hung on a long, thin chain and sat against d’Artagnan’s chest, clinking as the child moved. The chain had come with the timepiece and showed its aging in an almost glaring manner. Athos feared it breaking, the trinkets being lost, and the resulting expression d’Artagnan would have. Yet, Athos comforted himself with the understanding that the chain had survived two generations. It would survive under d’Artagnan’s careful handling.

The town had not changed much over the last two and a half years. The children had grown and the ones old enough to take up responsibilities were taking apprenticeships. A few teenagers were pairing off here and there, roped up in the tricky net of puppy love. The little market was still loud and men still wandered with swords on their belts. Athos even wore his though he was aware he had more training than many of the locals.

“Athos,” d’Artagnan called up to him as he packed the cloth into a sack with as much care as he could manage. He had a hand on Athos’ sheathed sword, brown eyes curious.

“Yes?”

“Papa thinks I should learn to handle a sword…”

Athos smiled, kneeling down to hold the boy’s shoulders in his hands. “I’d be honored to teach you swordsmanship…If your mother has no objections.”

“Mama agreed with Papa,” the boy said as he shook his head emphatically, hair fanning out about his head.

“Then we’ll start immediately.”

The boy smiled his blinding smile once more.


	3. First Meeting: Porthos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's Musketeers. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.
> 
> Ages in this chapter:  
> Porthos: 17  
> d'Artagnan: Almost 6

Porthos was seventeen when he learned of true depravity. He, Flea, and Charon had been running the streets of Paris, collecting food, supplies, and money as they wandered. They spied on the younger members of the Court of Miracles to ensure safety, laughed over how uncomfortable expensive clothes seemed, and wistfully thought of the possibility of a life on those streets that didn’t involve theft or trickery to survive.

About midday though, their collective musings were ended when one of the children came running up to them with a message from an elder of the Court. They were to find clean cloth and after they had nicked sheets from clotheslines, they rushed into the Court with confused expressions. The elder who had called upon them was a man who had almost become a priest until he’d found God’s work in patching the members of the Court of Miracles back together was more satisfying. Everyone had nicknamed him ‘Father’ in jest of his tendencies to quote scripture when he thought no one was listening. He was the closest thing to a priest one would find in the Court and he wasn’t the only one aware of that fact.

“Father,” Charon called as he tripped into the old chamber with sheets bundled about his arms like he was trying to keep his hands warm in the late winter wind. The old man whirled, staring at them with wild, bleary eyes as he leaned over a small body on his cot.

“Wonderful,” the Father cried. “Flea, hot water! Charon, rip those into strips! Porthos, I need your hands!”

As Flea disappeared and Charon collected the cloth they had collected, stripping it apart with a knife, Porthos rushed over to the priest. His hands were quickly wrapped about a small neck, streams of crimson bubbling past his fingers as he struggled to get a firm enough grip against pallid olive skin, belonging to a boy he had no recollection of within the Court.

“Keep it from bleeding,” the elder commanded, an unforgiving and nearly accusing finger jabbing the air near Porthos’ face. The young man nodded, ignoring the blood the finger left dotting his dark face. He focused on his hands, pressing against the wound whilst keeping them light enough to not do any further harm. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent with the Father stitching the long, smooth cut that stretched from just below the boy’s left ear to the center of his neck, arching downwards towards his chest, together before wrapping the child’s neck with the cloth. It was tediously slow to Porthos who remained at the boy’s head, hand wrapped over the wound as his mind whispered at him; it had nothing good to dwell on.

 _He’s so tiny_ , Porthos had thought as he’d inched his fingers out of the Father's way, staring at the knobbed knuckles as they wove thread and needle through skin. 

_He’s as old as Charlotte_ , he had noted as the Father and Flea wiped up the dried blood with soaked rags before more stitches were sewn through the mangled skin. 

_What’s he got in his hand?_ Porthos wondered while he held the boy up, a hand at the back of the child’s head as Charon helped wrap the cloth about the wound. 

Darkness was falling over the city when they had finally finished, candles lit about the chamber to make watching the injured boy easier. Flea went off to get them all food while the Father disappeared mumbling about blankets. Charon was slumped on an old chair that had erupted with dust as he’d settled while Porthos had arranged himself so the boy’s head was on his lap. He’d tossed his long coat over the child’s fevered body, shifting the boy’s fisted right hand so it lay on his chest. 

“Wonder what he’s clutching so desperately,” Charon murmured. 

Porthos nodded in silent agreement. He’d kept his eyes fixed on the child’s right hand that was clenched in a fist throughout the procedure, wondering at the drying mud coating small fingers while the left hand that was covered in blood had lain limp. Porthos folded his own hand over the tiny fist, his thumb brushing over the boy’s almost bronze skin without his conscious command.

“Maybe something from his attacker?” Porthos reasoned in an unusually soft tone. He swept raven colored bangs from a sweaty brow with the tips of his fingers. “Something from his family possibly,” he added with a shrug.

“If he’s got any you mean.”

“Charon,” Flea scolded from the doorway, a tray with three steaming bowls on it in her hands. Her face was storming as she glared at Charon.

“I meant nothing by it,” Charon mumbled, his body slouching further into the chair. She gave a huff as she passed him, lowering the tray so Porthos could take a bowl and spoon. The young man smiled at her, a soft tinge of pink spreading over his cheeks as their eyes connected.

“If you meant nothing by it, you shouldn’t sound so skeptical,” Porthos said as Flea glided to Charon with the tray. Charon scowled at him as he took his share of dinner from the girl.

“Does it not strike you two as odd that a child no older that two of our youngest nearly had his head separated from his shoulders?” Charon growled. Flea frowned over her shoulder as her hands turned white in their grip of the tray, her back to Charon as she spoke.

“That only makes the situation all the more saddening,” she muttered. 

The tray hit the table with a rattling clang then, Flea shaking out her tattered and mismatched clothes with pursed lips. 

“No more of this talk,” she declared as she tossed her braided hair over her shoulders, tying it back with a slip of ribbon Porthos had given her a year ago. “It’ll ruin our dinners which Ferrah worked so hard to put together.”

Porthos spooned the stew into his mouth greedily as Flea sank almost regally into a chair near the cot, his body warming as his stomach filled. He focused on the meat and vegetables first, knowing Ferrah’s stew always left the best flavoring in the broth. He didn’t really listen to Charon and Flea’s continued bickering but he did note how Flea’s eyes misted over when she looked too long at the child he sat with.

“He’s so small,” she whispered, hands tightening over her bowl. She had been gazing at the boy for a while, the conversation forgotten for a moment until she broke the silence by speaking.

“The Father doesn’t think he’ll wake anytime soon,” Charon groused between bites. His dark eyes burned in the candlelight as they stared over his bowl at the child they’d spent half the day patching back together. “Whoever did this best not ever meet me.”

Porthos nodded as he shoveled a rather large chunk of meat into his mouth. There were few things that weren’t tolerated by anyone in the Court; abusing a child was one of them. Having to do with being such a large community with very little room to stretch in the mornings, everyone knew everyone and everyone understood and felt the same pains as their neighbors. Children were lost thanks to illnesses each year and so the ones that lived were treated with only love and protective fancies. There was no such thing as senselessly harming a child in the Court.

As the night drew on, Charon and Flea drifted off to sleep in their chairs, the Father covering them and the child with blankets. He wrapped a blanket over Porthos’ shoulders, telling him to not stay up too late. Porthos only nodded at him as he devoured the last of the solids in the stew. Porthos set the spoon aside and pressed the bowl to his lips when the head on his lap shifted, catching his attention.

Fluttering lids opened with guarded curiosity, brown orbs rolling to take in all they could in the dim light as the small brow scrunched in confusion. A small gasp passed through flaring nostrils when those wide eyes connected with Porthos’ own. They stared at each other for a moment, the chamber filled with the sound of soft breathing and mumbled dreams. Porthos blinked first which was a strange feeling to say the least.

“Hello,” he whispered. “I’m Porthos.”

The boy’s mouth cracked open in a hollow, gaping motion that lasted only a second before Porthos pressed a finger to his face, eyes panicked and sympathetic as the boy grimaced.

“Sorry,” Porthos whispered, his hand falling to the boy’s shoulder. “I don’t know how, but I forgot about what the lot of us spent half a day fixing.”

The boy’s fisted hand twitched under the blanket and to his neck. He brushed his knuckles over the makeshift bandages, eyes growing scared as something haunted him. Porthos squeezed the boy’s shoulder reassuringly.

“You’re safe now,” he said. “I promise that.”

The child watched him for a moment with a scrutinizing expression, eyes narrowed in the candlelight as he studied Porthos. After a moment, he gave a slow blink, his chin falling towards his neck in a shallow nod. Porthos couldn’t stop himself from smiling. The smile fell when the boy’s eyes darted for the bowl in Porthos’ hand, a pink tongue grazing over peeling lips. 

“You must be hungry,” Porthos murmured. “Just a moment,” he whispered as he placed the bowl on the table. “Can’t have you choking on broth. Flea’d kill me.”

As he rambled, he wrapped an arm around the boy’s body, his other paw-like hand cupping the base of the boy’s head. With a bit of jostling and a few wincing apologies, he managed to sit the boy up. He rearranged the blankets and his coat so the boy’s tattered clothes were covered before he reached for the broth and the spoon.

“Good thing I already ate everything solid it here, huh?” he asked with a wry grin. 

The boy frowned and stuck out his tongue. He seemed unappreciative of the irony that Porthos didn’t want him choking on broth by trying to drink it while lying down or on anything too difficult for his injured state to manage. Porthos snorted, head bowed towards his chest, shoulders quaking.

“Alright,” he chuckled. “Sorry but you won’t be missing anything. Ferrah’s stews hold better broth than anyone I’ve ever known. You’ll taste all the ingredients he used.”

He scooped out some and held the bowl under the spoon as he guided it to the boy’s mouth. He almost sighed with relief when the child only opened his mouth far enough to allow the spoon in rather than trying to open wide. He smiled as the boy’s eyes rolled in appreciation as he savored the broth, slow spoonful by slow spoonful.

“Now,” Porthos murmured as he scraped at the last of the broth, “I understand you shouldn’t be speaking until you’re healed up but I’ll be expecting your name when you’re completely healed. Only then though and don’t you rush this. That’s what I do and it’s not fun.”

The boy gave him a toothy smile that almost blinded him in the dim light. He smiled back, quickly noting that this child was one of those infectiously happy children when they really tried. He pressed the last spoonful to the boy’s mouth and grinned when it disappeared down the boy’s throat with a slight bob of his Adam’s apple.

Porthos leaned over to the table to place the bowl and spoon aside when he was sure it was completely cleared of food. He wasn’t pleased that he hadn’t gotten to taste the broth but he wasn’t about to leave an injured child hungry either. Besides, it was a relief that the boy even woke in the first place let alone allowed Porthos to feed him.

The chamber remained filled with the sound of soft breathing as the stars began to fade outside the large windows. Porthos scooted back to the boy’s side, wrapping a blanket over his shoulders. The two of them would be told to sleep when the Father woke and found them to be awake but he didn’t find himself minding. It would mean he’d have to catch up on the night of sleep he’d missed - not that he hated missing it either - and he stayed near the boy, should anything be required of him.

The boy nudged his arm as the first hints of dawn light began to peek over the rooftops. He glanced down to find himself staring at the boy’s right hand as it cradled a small trinket in his palm. There was powdered dirt all over the boy’s lap and under his nails which made Porthos think he’d clutched the trinket after it’d fallen in the mud.

He slowly picked the trinket out of the boy’s hand, peering at its dirty frame for a moment before he gave up trying to decipher it past the dirt. He ran his tongue over the small oval, ignoring the soft slap to his shoulder, and rubbed it against his sleeve. He held it up to the light again, staring in awe at the silver casing embossed with a family crest that was rounded by slivers of blue sapphire.

“This your family’s crest?” he asked. The boy blushed before his eyes fell to his lap. 

Porthos frowned. 

“A friend give this to you?” 

The boy smiled. Porthos hummed in approval as he stared at the trinket once more. He pressed it back into the boy’s palm, folding his tiny fingers around it again.

“That’ll need a chain then,” he chuckled. The boy stared at him as Porthos smirked. “I’ll take care of it.”


	4. Of Chains and Tears: Porthos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's Musketeers. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.
> 
> Ages in this chapter:  
> Porthos: 17  
> d'Artagnan: Almost 6

A few months passed with little change while Porthos watched over the boy’s healing with Flea and the old Father. 

Charon had been out for most of the process; someone had to keep the younger members of the Court out of trouble as well as look for clues on anyone willing to harm a child in daylight. Though, the dark skinned, young man tended to return with small sweets for the injured boy and soft pats on the head for the genuine smiles he was given for the presents. He had his heart set on finding the boy’s attackers and rid the world of their filth but he seemed unable to escape those shy smiles of thanks.

While Charon was the least dynamic of the three when it came to dealing with the boy in their charge, Flea was the overbearing yet protective mother, wishing her sweet, innocent child never have any harm come to him. The boy was patient with her constant checking of his bandages as well as her incessant need to make sure he’d eaten or was warm enough under the mountain of blankets she’d bury him under. She frowned at the sweets Charon brought but didn’t argue when the boy showed such glee at the sight of them.

Yet, it was Porthos who found his arm clasped in small hugs, his chest being leaned into, and his attentions searched for by the boy rather than those of Charon or Flea. When the Father looked over and smoothed salve over the stitching, the boy practically yanked Porthos over to sit next to him, hands wrapping in white knuckled grasps in Porthos’ shirts. When it was time to eat, it was Porthos’ bowl he inspected before sipping at his. When dusk fell, the boy was pressing into Porthos’ side for warmth.

It was a bit of a surprise when Porthos found himself able to sneak out of the chamber one morning. The spring sun was beginning to crest over the glittering rooftops as he slipped out of the Court of Miracles and into the loud hub of the Paris marketplace. There was a jeweler he knew to have sturdy chains for trinkets and timepieces who would give him one at a reasonable price – or none at all should it be the case. 

The chain would have to be long to remain comfortable around the boy’s neck as he grew. It had taken a bit of constant questioning to get the boy’s age out of him but Porthos hadn’t minded. The child would be six within the month from what he’d gathered from the boy’s gestured answers. Porthos could at least ensure his only possession remained safe after everything. Besides, he liked to keep his promises where he could and a chain was a small thing and this little trip shouldn’t take him too long.

Bayard tended to open his shop early to allow for wandering – or desperate – souls to find his pieces while he was mostly empty. He kept his rusty hair combed back and tied in a simple ribbon and had the habit of ruffling his cuffs when he wanted to look impressive. He fooled no one though seeing as there were some women taller than his stout personage. Porthos and Charon towered over the rather round forty-year-old as well.

“Bayard,” Porthos called from the doorway, a wide grin on his face as the portly man stumbled out of the back.

“Ah, Porthos,” the man sighed. “Gave me a fright you did. What brings you?”

“A simple errand,” Porthos shrugged, pulling as his loose shirt as he sniffed dismissively. “There’s a child with a trinket that requires a chain you see but….He’s ill at the moment so I’ve come to find one for him.”

Bayard smiled, his mustache bristling against his fat cheeks as he nodded in a sage like motion.

“Naturally,” he snickered. “You’re sure it’s for a trinket?” Porthos gave him a wounded look, earning a laugh. 

“I only jest, Lad,” Bayard chuckled as he opened a drawer filled with chains of all sizes and lengths. “Now then, how long and how sturdy?”

Porthos leaned against the small display as he hummed in thought. “Well,” he hummed as he rubbed his chin. “The boy’s almost six so it will need to be fairly long. Also, he’s in the Court so the thicker the chain links the better. The trinket’s a bit small though.”

Bayard nodded as he shuffled through the links before pulling one free with a deft sweep of his hand. In all regards, the chain links were only of average size and the chain would have come to a low at only the middle of Porthos’ wide chest. Yet, with the trinket’s relative size in mind, the chain would be thick and sturdy as Porthos required it to be. Also, it would be long enough for the child to hide the trinket even in the large shirts Charon had found him.

“That’ll do nicely,” Porthos said with a wide grin. “What should I pay you for such useful wares?”

“Ack!” Bayard scoffed with a dismissive wave of his hand and a disgusted look on his face. “Don’t be ridiculous! If not for you and your friends, I’d have been robbed blind last week. No, you get this as a small repayment to a great favor.”

Porthos grinned as the chain fell into his palm. “Thank you Bayard. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

Bayard laughed as Porthos slipped out of the shop and into the sparse crowd that had begun to clog the narrow street as vendors opened their stalls for business. The return trip to the Court took longer than he would have liked due to his need to avoid the crowds as much as possible but it took him past the training yard of the Musketeers.

The yard echoed with the sound of clanging metal and the grunts of frustrated men. Porthos watched from the gate with awe as three men each charge a young man with short, brown hair and the shadow of morning stubble lining his sharp jawline with wide arcs of their swords. The young man, who could not be all that much older than Porthos was, laughed as he batted the swords away like a kitten with yarn. Some of the men on the sidelines were calling out suggestions to the losing combatants while the young man they fought was calling out his own jests as he circled them.

Porthos smirked. The brunette wasn’t an idiot, no matter how much he jested. He kept his eyes on his opponents, his blade ready for an attack from any direction, and he remained in motion to make it harder to be caught. Porthos would admit he was skilled as well seeing as he was winning in an unfair fight. He was impressive.

The fight ended when another man called for it to stop, yelling at the three for starting it over something stupid. The young man apologized for his disruption as he sheathed his sword and straightened his coat. As the thoroughly beaten three limped off, the authoritative man started speaking to the brunette.

“Well fought,” he said with an air of restrained awe. “I’d expect no less though, with all things considered.”

“I apologize again for the disruption Monsieur de Tréville,” the brunette growled, his eyes trailing his earlier attackers. “They spoke ill of someone they had no knowledge that I knew personally.” 

“The offence was taken none the less,” Tréville stated as he rested his hand on the decorative pommel of his sword. The young man nodded, face set with a determined glare as if trying to gauge if Tréville too would make another comment he could not ignore. 

“Indeed,” the brunette fighter stated after a chilled moment.

Tréville smiled genially, shuffling a step closer to the young man before him. The brunette stood his ground with a cool expression on his face. Tréville chuckled.

“My apologies for my men,” Tréville said with a slight bow to the young man. “We’re still working through a few hitches on last year’s recruits sadly. Half my men are good but cocky you see while the other half are extraordinary but interested in only the pleasures of life.”

“You should whip your men then,” the brunette stated with an arrogant tilt of his chin. “I would have by now if they were that undisciplined.”

“Well then, you wouldn’t have very many men under you then now would you?”

“I’d prefer to have the best under my command and nothing less,” the brunette stated. “Besides, I’m only here due to my father wishing I go into the military and be honorable and the like. I’d much rather be somewhere else than dealing with your slipshod men.”

Tréville laughed then, the young man flushing an impressive shade of red.

“Where would you _prefer_ to be then, young man?” Tréville asked through his sputtering laughter.

“Gascony,” was the firm reply. The laughter halted.

“Why there of all places? Nothing happens there. I should know being a Gascon myself.”

“True,” the brunette stated. “It’s just…I have a good friend there; one I’d protect with my life if need be. My father may wish for me to get a commission and gain a bit more respect past my heritage but I have my own reasons to join up with any section of the King’s men.”

“This good friend of yours being the main one naturally,” Tréville reasoned. The brunette nodded, his lips drawn in a smile.

“Well,” Tréville sighed, rocking back on his heels. “I may not appreciate some of your reasons but at least I can agree with the ones that matter. Hopefully, you’re next visit to Gascony will be as a fully commissioned Musketeer.”

As Tréville walked off, a Spaniard with short, black hair and a goatee danced up to the brunette’s side with a smug smile.

“I told you our dear Captain would be impressed by you, my good sir,” the Spaniard snickered as he jabbed the brunette in a playful manner.

“Hush you,” the brunette chuckled.

“It true though? You’d really prefer to be off in Gascony?”

“I’ve spent the last four springs in Gascony,” the brunette grumbled as he crossed his arms over his chest. The Spaniard laughed, leaning backwards to nearly toppling over.

“That friend of yours must be something!” the Spaniard smiled. He ignored the dark glare the brunette sent his way in favor of continuing on with his commentary. “I do hope you stay as a Musketeer. We’re far more interesting. Not to mention, more fun. You’ll probably end up being the best of us or something surely.”

The Spaniard smacked the brunette’s shoulder and disappeared after a few other men, chattering at them genially as he pleased. The brunette scowled after him for a moment before dusting off his shoulder. His brown eyes met Porthos’ as he picked at imaginary dust from his shoulder. Porthos flushed as the young man smiled at him, tipping his wide brimmed hat for good measure. He bent his head in respect before rushing off.

He was late and he just knew Flea was going to have a fit when he managed to stumble back into the Court. 

“Where have you _been_?” Charon yelled when Porthos ran into him when he slipped back into the Court of Miracles through a hidden entrance on the north end. Porthos gave a breathy laugh as he pushed past his friend, who stumbled after him as he continued to run to the Father’s chambers.

“I was taking care of something I promised I’d do and lost track of time,” Porthos said as he barreled past people and over obstacles. Charon raced after him.

“Lost track of time?! Doing what?”

Porthos flushed. “Watching the Musketeers practice?” he called back, hoping his friend wouldn’t be too angry for his vested – and known – interest in one of the best of the King’s armed forces. Charon had never been shy about showing how he felt on Porthos’ wish to be something other than a street rat.

“Flea is going to skin you alive Porthos!” Charon yelled as they skidded around corners and tripped up the steps to the chamber. There was a growl in his voice that spoke of his irritation but he was wisely not voicing it any further.

“That’s the _least_ I’ll be doing!” Flea screeched at them from the top of the stairs. Charon collided into Porthos, who had halted as soon as Flea had started screaming, and both boys slammed down onto the steps with a chorused groan.

“Flea,” Porthos began, his cheeks flushed as he gazed up at her column straight figure and storming eyes. Her blonde hair looked like a halo in the sunlight beaming through the windows of the hall.

“Don’t,” she barked out, the two boys flinching from the sound. “Disappearing on everyone? Before any of us woke? How could you?”

“Flea,” Porthos tried again as he struggled to his feet, untangling his legs from Charon’s flowing clothes. His hand fished the chain from his pocket as he struggled about.

“Quiet!” the blonde girl screeched again.

“Well,” Charon huffed as he and Porthos separated their legs and clothes from one another. He hopped up the steps to stand next to Flea and continued saying, “He can’t rightly explain himself if you’re telling him to shut up before he can even start to explain no can he?”

“You as well Charon,” Flea barked. “Both of you, be silent!”

They snapped their jaws shut and stood stalk still before her at the top of the steps, heads bowed at the girl who was slightly shorter than them. They kept their eyes fixed on her face though, Porthos clutching the chain in his fist behind his back while Charon clasped a hand around his wrist in front of himself.

First, Charon wishes damnation on the people who harmed that boy and then you, the one person he doesn’t let leave the chambers, up and disappear on everyone?!” Flea screamed. “What were you thinking?”

“The Father’s in a right mood too,” Charon growled over his shoulder at Porthos.

“I thought I said for you to be quiet,” Flea growled. She rounded on Porthos again. “Where have you been all day, Porthos?”

“I-,” he began only to find himself interrupted.

“Porthos?” a soft, voice croaked.

Porthos leaned forward, eyes wide in shock at the sight before him. There, in the doorway of the Father’s chambers, stood the boy in a shirt that he was swimming in. The collar had slipped off the boy’s right shoulder while one of the sleeves had slipped over his hand. He had the sleeve covered hand hovering at his neck, hiding the bandages as well as his mouth.

“Lad,” Porthos breathed, his body sliding around his friends of its own accord, his arms extending out in a welcoming gesture as he knelt on the floor.

“Porthos!” the boy croaked, tears flooding his brown eyes, before he dashed into Porthos’ arms. Tiny arms wrapped around Porthos’ neck, warmth spreading through the older boy and cradling his very heart in a loving embrace. Warm tears fell onto his neck as he held the boy close to his chest, something within it stinging.

“Sorry Lad,” Porthos whispered as Flea petted the boy’s hair and Charon patted his tiny arms. “Sorry for scaring you.” 

“Where… _were_ …you?” the boy hiccupped past his cracking, underused voice. Porthos rubbed his back in long, slow motions as a spasm of coughing overtook the boy’s small frame.

“And now you’ve made him sicker,” Flea hissed.

“Well done,” Charon groaned. 

“Quiet you two,” Porthos barked. He lifted the boy from the floor, standing and striding back into the chamber room. “Just get him some water while I calm him and explain to someone who’ll _listen_ to me!”

With that, he kicked the heavy door closed, a hand pressing the boy’s head into his neck in an almost territorially protective hold. He didn’t like how light the boy was in his arms. Charlotte wasn’t this light and she wasn’t all that much older than the boy he held. Porthos understood that the boy was tiny and hadn’t been able to eat more than broth for the last month but he still shouldn’t have weighed so little.

“Where-?” the boy began before another chough racked its way through him.

“Easy, Lad,” Porthos admonished in a gentle fashion. “You’ve not used your voice in a while and your throat must still be raw from that injury. Slow down. I’ll tell you. Just take it easy.”

The boy nodded, his brow buried against Porthos’ neck as he clenched a hand in the back of Porthos’ shirt. Porthos patted his back gently as he sank them both into a chair.

“I was in town,” Porthos explained slowly as he rearranged the boy’s legs over his lap so the child was leaning against his chest. He placed his chin on top of soft dark hair, taking a deep breath before he continued. 

“I lost track of time when I passed by the Musketeer training yard. There was this young man, no older than I, sparing three others. He won and was asked to take up a commission.”

The boy tugged at Porthos’ shirt, his head pressing against Porthos’ clavicle. His long lashes tickled Porthos’ skin as he blinked, listening intently if his silence was anything to go by. Porthos lifted his head from the boy’s, clearing his throat.

“Now, as to _why_ I was in the city,” Porthos grunted as he unfurled the chain in front of the boy. 

The child stared at it for a moment with a confused expression before realization lit over his face. He pulled his arm over Porthos’ shoulder, settling it between his body and Porthos’ chest as he shook the sleeve down to his elbow to reveal a fist. His fingers opened like a blooming flower bud, the trinket sitting prettily on his palm.

“I told you I’d take care of it didn’t I?” Porthos chuckled as he bumped his nose to the boy’s temple. The child nodded, his brown eyes remaining wide.

“Here, let me put it on the chain for you, Lad,” Porthos said as he plucked the trinket from the child’s palm and moved to attach it to the chain while keeping the boy caged between his arms and body.

“d’Artagnan,” the child croaked. 

Porthos’ fingers stilled, his neck arching so he could look at the boy’s eyes.

“My name.”

Porthos smiled. “Right.” He pressed the trinket’s clasp tightly around the link. “This will need a bit more fixing before it’s done but until then, this should do you. Just, don’t fiddle with it too much, d’Art.”

D’Artagnan smiled, nodding as Porthos slipped the chain over his head.

“You need better clothes too,” Porthos grumbled, hugging d’Artagnan close again. “You’re going to be a handful aren’t you?” 

The boy simply smiled into Porthos’ chest.


	5. First Meeting: Aramis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's Musketeers. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.
> 
> Ages in this chapter:  
> Porthos: 19 (Almost 20)  
> Aramis: 18 (Almost 19)  
> d'Artagnan: 8

While Aramis was a lover of all things female and romantic, he could not fault the twenty year old Porthos for his impressive skill at swordplay. Porthos had joined up the year before, claiming his lack of family and young age to be the last things their captain should worry over. Aramis, being a year younger than Porthos could only agree with the claims seeing as Tréville really only needed to worry over training him.

Aramis had taken to Porthos’ side like none other past his other friend Marsac. Where Marsac was cautious and liked following rules he was given, Porthos was brash, confident, and aware of things in the city confines Aramis had been nearly unaware of until he’d met the young mulatto man with fire in his eyes. Porthos was an adventure waiting to happen and Aramis wanted to be at his side when it came calling.

Though, Aramis was always confused that Porthos would stop in front of the main gate to the Court of Miracles whenever they passed it on patrols, the fire in his eyes diming as he stared at the gate longingly. It was an expression Athos got on his face when spring came about or when someone mentioned anything on Gascony. It was like they were missing parts of themselves and couldn’t access them no matter how much they wished to.

“Why do you stare at it?” Aramis asked one day, trying to make another friendship that would mean more than the mutual camaraderie all the Musketeers held for one another. Porthos had to shake himself from his musings to stare at Aramis for a moment, like he was trying to figure out what had been said to him.

“I…I have friends here,” Porthos admitted. 

Aramis gave him a sympathetic look. Almost everyone in the Court of Miracles was a branded criminal. There were rumors and tales he’d heard of families with children living within the walls but he hadn’t believed it. Not until now. Not until Porthos proved them true.

“I don’t want your pity, Aramis,” Porthos groused, stomping off into the city market.

“It’s not pity,” Aramis said when he caught up with Porthos again in the crowds. “It’s sympathy.”

“To feel sympathy requires feeling pity,” Porthos shot back. He was right, naturally. 

“It’s also an understanding between others; a common feeling if you will,” Aramis said with a cheeky grin, hoping to lighten the mood. Porthos only grunted at him.

They continued weaving through the crowds until Porthos was stopped by a portly jeweler with a bright smile. The two chatted, seemingly uncaring that Aramis was listening to them the whole time, about how Porthos wasn’t looking like a street rat, that someone called Dart – or something – had come by to get something fixed, and that it had been done free of charge.

“You must of done some good if you’re getting things free of charge from that jeweler,” Aramis commented gently once Porthos separated from the man. “I’ve known him to be rather stingy.”

“Bayard has a revenue to look after,” Porthos mumbled. “My friends and I just kept it safe for him a couple times.”

Aramis hummed his approval. He’d heard a few hushed whispers in his three years with the Musketeers over how old Bayard seemed to have street kids protecting his shop at night. He was beginning to think that Porthos would soon shed far more light on this city than he even thought possible.

They were nearing the training yard again when a shout came from overhead. Aramis’ hand flew to his sword before his mind registered the voice had called for Porthos.

“d’Art!” Porthos cried in horror as he looked up to a perched on the sill of a window. “Get down from there! It’s dangerous!”

“Ack! You sound like Flea!” the boy called back, long dark hair falling over his eyes and olive colored brow.

“That doesn’t change the fact!”

“Oh alright,” the boy sighed as he leapt onto a stacked box under the window. Porthos took in a sharp breath when it teetered, the boy’s arms flailing about before he hopped down to the street and rolled to Porthos’ side.

“If Charon were here…” Porthos was muttering as he lifted the boy to his feet and ran searching hands over his tiny body. The boy was obviously being fed, his body all lean muscle that was put to use in his apparent antics, despite his possible status – or lack thereof.

“But he’s not,” the boy said with a grin that glowed like summer sunshine against his olive skin.

“One of the friends I presume,” Aramis chuckled, gaining their attentions. 

As the boy glanced his way, he thought he saw a line of darkened skin carving its way through part of the child’s throat. He couldn’t be sure though due to d’Art’s hand flying up to cover his throat as he ducked behind Porthos’ bulky frame. Porthos gave Aramis a challenging look as if daring him to try something.

“I try to be friendly,” Aramis sighed, his eyes peering around Porthos to look at the child behind him. He frowned when he saw the boy desperately trying to hide his neck.

“He’s got trust issues,” Porthos stated, standing between Aramis and the boy clinging to his pant leg. “Understandable ones.”

Aramis nodded, his eyes remaining on the boy as his tiny fingers lost their grip on his shirt collar to reveal a long, jagged scar running from his left ear to the dip at the base of his throat. He nearly uttered a prayer for the boy as another part of him flared with rage at the mistreatment of a child. 

Instead, he signaled for Porthos to wait a moment and wandered over to a stall selling scarves. He bought a simple black one that would be utilitarian for any weather or function. He then knelt before the boy, unfurling the fabric as he waited for curious eyes to peer around a leg at him. He smiled at the boy, continuing to fuss with the fabric so it was folded in half.

“What’re you doing?” Porthos asked. 

Aramis smirked at him as he held an end of the folded scarf in each hand. He flung it over the child’s head, deftly shoving the separate tails into the hole at the fold at the scarf’s half point. He fiddled with it a bit more so the scarf was flat around the boy’s neck, the tails lying against his hips.

“I think he’ll grow into that nicely, don’t you?” Aramis asked as he stood, a hand ruffling soft, black hair.

“T-thank you,” the boy mumbled from behind Porthos’ leg.

Aramis nodded. “Not a problem.” He dusted off the knees of his trousers as he straightened up. “Porthos, we should be going. Tréville will scold us if we’re late.”

Porthos nodded at him with a dumb expression on his face before turning to the boy. They shared a few quick words, the boy parting from him after a quick hug. Aramis smiled after the boy’s disappearing form.

“Thanks for that,” Porthos murmured as they reentered the training yard. 

“I saw the scar and felt an urge,” Aramis shrugged as they passed Athos – Aramis’ senior in years by seven years – and his newest victims in sparing practice. Athos was winning, as expected, as well as ripping the men new ones for shoddy work. 

“Might I ask…how old is he?”

“Who? d’Art? He’ll nine this spring,” Porthos admitted.

Aramis took a deep breath, his eyes fluttering closed as he took note that the boy was ten years his younger. _Porthos is older than the boy by eleven years then_ , he reasoned. A few things were beginning to make sense.

“He’s your reason,” Aramis sighed.

“Heh?”

“That boy,” Aramis clarified. “He’s the reason you joined. Isn’t he?”

Porthos flushed at the question. Aramis told him to forget he’d asked it. He already had the answer though, and it made him jealous. Porthos and Athos had reasons to be Musketeers other than trying to simply have a livelihood in Paris as well as gain an identity as something other than their origins. He had come in with his friend Marsac looking to gain glory in battle and lovely women falling at his feet before he would go into the priesthood.

However, he had a feeling his motives were changing after the meeting of little d’Art.


	6. Savoy and Shooting: Aramis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's Musketeers. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.
> 
> Ages in this chapter:  
> Porthos: 21  
> Aramis: 20  
> d'Artagnan: 10

He was surrounded by the bodies of his fellows, the air shrouded in fog and the smoke of lit powder. The tents were destroyed if not lying limply from their constructed ties and stands. It was leaning late into the afternoon, the smell of the dead bringing the crows and ravens. Aramis, as much as he wished to protect what little dignity his comrades had left in their dishonoring deaths, couldn’t move from where he was sitting beneath a stunted tree.

As the smell of spent gun powder faded in favor for the stabbing scent of decay, Aramis thought over what had gotten him here. He and Marsac had celebrated his twentieth birthday not two days ago. Porthos had jeered at him just the other day when he’d heard, commenting on Aramis being experienced for such a young man. Athos, in his quiet and stoic way, congratulated him just before Tréville gave Aramis and his troupe an assignment.

Simple training exercise. That’s what this was supposed to be. Nothing was supposed to happen damn it. Yet, here he sat amongst dead men, alone, cold, sore, and despondent. His friends were dead, most killed in their sleep. Those who hadn’t been killed while they slept, were slaughtered. He wasn’t even sure how he and Marsac had survived. 

Marsac had disappeared on him, leaving him with the bodies and the guilt of surviving something this hauntingly awful. Aramis wasn’t sure when he’d sat down after being left but he knew he didn’t want to get up. 

He wasn’t sure how many days had passed either, if the smell was dulled to him or really only starting up. He wasn’t sure the number of crows was too great or too small. All he knew was he couldn’t look away.

When large, gloved hands brushed back bangs from his brow, he found himself frowning. He’d been left alone; he knew that. So who was holding his face so gently? Who was calling his name with so much worry in their deep, rumbling voice? 

“Aramis? I need you to tell me what hurts,” the voice called.

Aramis blinked, trying to focus on something other than the bodies surrounding him. He managed to focus on the gloved hands cupping his face, a thumb brushing a wetness from his cheeks. He followed them up to fiery eyes set in a squared face with a strong jaw. A silk scarf was tied over the person’s hair, the braided tail of it falling over the man’s shoulder. 

“Aramis,” the man groaned, his hands pressing Aramis’ cheeks as they tried to not shake him.

“Porthos?”

“ _Dieu merci_ ,” another voice breathed out, another set of hands stilling on Aramis’ torso. Aramis’ head lolled to the side to see who else he was speaking to.

“Athos?”

“What hurts?” Porthos insisted, his paw-like hands steadying Aramis’ head again. His dark eyes were blazing intensity.

“E-everything,” Aramis heard himself admit.

“He’s got a few bruises and scrapes,” Athos confirmed. “Nothing life threatening or infected though.” He laid a hand on Aramis’ shoulder, eyes filled with an understanding that Aramis could not place. “Are you the only one?”

Aramis was silent for a moment. It was such an ambiguous question. Surely, Athos and Porthos weren’t the only ones sent to check on this fallen troupe if they were late in returning. _Days must have passed then_ , Aramis reasoned. Yet, he wasn’t sure if Athos was asking if he was the only one left alive or if he was the person left here.

Aramis didn’t even realize he was crying until Porthos bundled him into a firm hug, his tears falling against Porthos’ warm breast. Athos’ hand rubbed firm circles on Aramis’ back as sobs wracked his body, everything he’d been numb to crashing into the forefront of his mind.

His friends were dead. The one that had survived had gone off, swearing to find the ones responsible for this tragedy. He’d been alone for days, not eating or drinking. It was fall and the cold had bitten into his body past the shirt and trousers. The only contact he’d gotten in days was from his checking the bodies for survivors before he’d shut down.

He clutched at Porthos’ jacket, not caring what he looked or sounded like. Everything hurt. Absolutely everything hurt. He wanted to curl into a ball and die it hurt so much. He wanted to never leave this warmth holding him together. He never wanted another friend to leave him.

The two let him cry, telling the others to mind their own damned business when questions were asked. The new troupe stayed in that hell for two days, Porthos and Athos slowly coaxing Aramis to eat and speak again without feeling sorry for himself – never once telling him to get over the situation and move on – while the others collected and wrapped the dead in blankets and what was left of the tents.

The return to Paris was silent, Porthos hovering near Aramis with a worried look in those fiery eyes of his. Porthos said nothing aloud past asking if Aramis was hungry, thirsty, tired, or if anything hurt. Athos actively helped Porthos throw rocks at anyone who muttered anything ill intentioned. Porthos even threatened to shoot one of the others for saying Aramis should’ve been on higher alert, even in a training exercise.

“How would you know, you lazy good for nothing?” Porthos growled. “You don’t even know who was on watch when they were attacked, let alone who attacked them!”

“At _ease_ Porthos,” Athos called as he brushed a cloth over Aramis’ soaked and raw cheeks and nose. “Tréville will hear of their comments once we return either way. You shouldn’t bother shooting them when they’ve already done it themselves.”

It still took Porthos a long minute to slide the pistol back into place on his belt.

Tréville was understandably unhappy when he was told of the incident at the border of Savoy. He was far more angered at the other men’s commentaries though and went off to deal with them while Porthos and Athos guided Aramis to his dorm in the barracks. Athos left to fetch the surgeon, wishing to be sure Aramis truly was physically healthy while Porthos coaxed Aramis to eat some of the porridge he’d grabbed on their way in.

Aramis wasn’t hungry. He was starving but he refused the food. He’d eaten some on the way back but as soon as he’d been sat in Tréville’s office, his stomach had tied itself in a knot and he couldn’t even think of food. The porridge had cooled by the time Athos arrived with the surgeon who deemed Aramis healthy though suffering shock from trauma.

“Try to get him to eat,” the surgeon whispered to the two in the doorway, like Aramis’ health was a conspiracy that shouldn’t be overheard. “Don’t leave him alone either. I’ve seen some lose themselves to the grief of surviving.” The three men frowned at Aramis with concern that burned him so badly he had to look away from them.

Aramis wanted nothing to do with loneliness though. He wanted nothing more than to be wrapped up in Porthos’ arms again where it was warm and safe. He wished there were thicker curtains on the window though, the bright sunlight making him physically ill at how damned cheery it was being.

Athos and Porthos took overlapping shifts for a few days, coaxing Aramis into daily habits as they had on the trip form Savoy, until Athos came in one day announcing he had to return home. His father was dying and he had to take up responsibilities which left him having to go into the reserves. Porthos had given his sympathies for Athos’ father and wished him a safe trip. 

Aramis wanted to crawl into a hole again.

After Athos left, Aramis found himself with Porthos more often than not. Porthos, who was still on duty in a sense, would drag Aramis out of his room and to the training yards. He’d settle him at a table and tell him not to go anywhere or there would be pain before going off to spar with other Musketeers. When practice was over, he’d drag Aramis off for food or along with him on patrols. 

Aramis was never out of his sight and Aramis found he was annoyed at the paranoia. He got so annoyed, he left his dorm early one morning and slipped out while Porthos continued sleeping. He wanted some time alone – never mind how the very thought of being as such hurt him on a physical level – and if Porthos wasn’t going to give it to him, he’d take it himself.

He wandered the streets all through the morning, a hand on his sword so as to keep his legs from being tangled by it as he walked. He had pressed his wide brimmed hat down as far as he could get it and kept his head bowed so the sunlight wouldn’t hit his face. It was still far too cheery for him at the moment.

He passed working women who teased at a good time, baring shoulders and shins from their windows and doorways. He almost took some of them up on their offers when it occurred to him that he wouldn’t enjoy anything they tried. He’d just want to talk about Savoy, the pain, the fact that he’d not told anyone else Marsac was not dead. 

He wanted it all off his chest while he also wanted no one past the Musketeers to know. He also wished no one in the Musketeers to know. Especially not Porthos or Athos who had been kind enough to be there for him when he’d shut everything and everyone else out. Just as, he realized, he was still doing.

He was leaning against a wall in an alley when he started becoming aware of himself again. His body faced the wall, his head down, an arm wrapped over his aching stomach as he stared down at vomit in the dirt. It was as pale and bland looking as the porridge Porthos was making him eat but he knew he hadn’t eaten today. He held the back of his hand to his mouth as he looked up to the sky to try to gain some sense.

“Midafternoon,” he whispered to no one in particular. “Porthos must be worried sick.”

“Well then, what the hell’re you doing?” a small voice asked from behind him. 

Aramis frowned, turning with a drunken wobble to face a boy with black hair, olive skin, curious eyes, and a scarf about his neck. His clothes were a bit lose on his form but not because he’d been lacking in food. They were just big on him. Aramis recognized the scarf though.

“You’re…”

“Porthos’ friend,” d’Art affirmed. “I’m called d’Artagnan, by the way.” He held out a hand.

“Nice to meet you,” Aramis croaked as he extended his own only to withdraw it so he could take off his vomit smeared glove. The boy chuckled at his kindness.

“I live on the streets you know?”

“No reason to touch refuse that’s not your own,” Aramis grumbled.

“What’s wrong?”

“…Huh?” Surely the boy was only guessing. He couldn’t know anything.

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes, rubbing his fingers over his brow as his other hand fell on his hip.

“Every time I’ve seen you before last month, you’re always happy. You joke, laugh, and flirt with every woman passing your way.”

“You’ve been _watching_ me?”

“I’ve been watching _Porthos_ you idiot,” d’Artagnan snarled. “Someone has to make sure he’s staying out of trouble but no one in the Court wants to get near a Musketeer. I’m new enough it won’t matter…long as I don’t do anything too stupid, mind.”

“And you’ve ended up watching me as well,” Aramis mumbled as his mind put it together. 

Patrols weren’t set things for new recruits. One went where he was told when he was told. That was how Aramis had ended up with Porthos on quite a few patrols. Athos had been on a few with him as well.

The boy nodded at him with that smile of sunshine. Aramis found it didn’t hurt nearly as badly as it should have.

“I never saw you,” he grumbled.

“Well, I’d surely _hope_ not! That’s the _intention_!” d’Artagnan laughed. “Now,” he continued, a hand catching up Aramis’ ungloved one, “tell me what’s wrong.”

“I…I can’t,” Aramis mumbled, pulling his hand from the boy’s. Their fingers slipped apart and his heart broke once more. He wanted to hit himself for revealing the boy’s assumption to be correct just because he’d opened his mouth.

The boy scrunched his lips together, pointing them towards his right eye as he crossed his arms. He looked like he’d wait this out for as long as it would take. Aramis almost didn’t want to let him. A much louder part of him, however, growled for him to remain silent.

“Fine then,” d’Artagnan grumbled. “Don’t tell me. It’s not really my business after all.” His arms fell to his sides as he looked down the alleyway with a far off look in his eyes. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have pried but…”

“But?” Aramis heard himself prompting.

The boy glanced at him nervously. “I know that expression you’re wearing.”

Aramis cocked his head as he knelt to look the boy in the eyes. “How so?” he asked, genuinely intrigued.

“I’ve worn something like it myself,” the boy admitted, his chin held high like he was acknowledging an achievement.

Aramis scoffed at him. The boy didn’t glare though, his eyes just impassive as they stared at Aramis for a long, chilling moment. He lifted a hand to the scarf, pulling it loose and slipping it over his head. Aramis stared at the scar he had managed to forget in the last year of not seeing the boy. 

His fingertips grazed over the ugly line of their own accord as tears gathered in his eyes for someone other than himself. He wanted to question how the boy got it as well as what the chain around his neck hid but the scar kept his mouth shut.

“I know that expression,” the boy repeated. “I used to wear it when I was healing, when I was alone or with people I wasn’t sure I liked. It’d leave when I was with Flea or Porthos or Charon but I preferred Porthos’ company most.”

“And he’s a Musketeer now,” Aramis whispered. The ten year old nodded with a tear dripping from his eye.

“I don’t wear it anymore though,” d’Artagnan assured him.

“Oh?” Aramis asked with an unbidden chuckle. “Why not?”

“Because Porthos and Charon taught me how to use a knife as well as my fists, and I have a bit of sword skill thanks to another friend,” the boy snickered.

“All that’s left is shooting,” Aramis groaned, his hand falling to his knee. The boy wrapped the scarf back around his neck with a confident smile.

“Would you like to teach me?” he asked.

“Why should I teach you anything? What’ll you use it for?”

“I’m going to protect the people I care about once I’m old enough,” the boy stated. His chin was held high as he smiled that infectious smile of his that held pure sunlight. “Also, you need a distraction. That’s what Porthos would say…if he weren’t being all gentle with you.”

“Gentle?! I assure you-!” Aramis cried only to have the boy smack a small hand over his mouth, an amused smirk crossing the young face before him.

“He’s never that nice,” d’Artagnan said, his hand falling away from Aramis’ mouth. “At least, not with people he doesn’t care about.”

“Oh…”

“Indeed,” d’Artagnan snickered again. His eyes flashed then as he glanced down the alleyway. “I guess you were right, about him being worried sick.”

“Oh that was only speculation,” Aramis grumbled, looking away from the boy. He tried to ignore the laughter that echoed through the alleyway.

“Aramis!” Porthos’ rumbling voice thundered.

“P-Porthos?” Aramis stammered. His head whipped around the alley only to find he was alone, the boy gone, and Porthos storming towards him. 

“ _Dieu_! You have everyone worried!” Porthos yelled. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

“I…Wished to clear my head a bit,” Aramis mumbled.

“ _Warn_

“An earned reward I guess,” Aramis smiled. Porthos scowled and stormed out of the alley.

“I expect lessons,” d’Artagnan hissed from behind a crate.

“How-?” The boy gave him a look that questioned Aramis’ sanity. “Right…street kid.”

“You may want to catch up with that big hypocrite,” d’Artagnan snickered as he pointed the way Porthos had left.

“Strange boy you are,” Aramis jeered back as he stumbled after his comrade. “Evenings, here. If you’re late, I will leave.”

“Understood,” the boy called before darting off. 

Aramis managed to spot him again later that afternoon as he was returning home. He smiled at the boy as he spoke to a pair of girls, one with blonde hair, the other with fiery red. They all sat, perched on crates and barrels, snickering to each other. He was tempted to step up to them, act like a responsible adult and tell them they should head home, but stopped when another child raced up to the three and chattered at them with an urgent voice. He contented himself with watching the four disappear into the dusk, praying for them to stay safe.

He couldn’t bear to lose another person at the moment. Especially not the one who’d snapped him out of his last bout of self-pity.

He held a loose fist to his mouth, his head bent as he whispered, “Angels of God, from heaven so bright, watching besides my children to lead them aright; fold your wings ‘round them, and guard them with love; softly sing songs to them from heaven above.” He crossed himself then with a shaky breath. “Amen.”


	7. Charred Remains: Athos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's Musketeers. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.
> 
> Ages in this chapter:  
> Athos: 42  
> Porthos: 36  
> Aramis: 35  
> d'Artagnan: 25

At forty-two, Athos wasn’t sure what wrong turn he’d taken to end up where he was. He’d buried his parents, taking full responsibility as the new Count de le Fère. He remained in the Musketeer reserves so that he would hold a place there should he need to return for any reason and kept in contact with Captain Tréville when he could between his duties and exhaustion from said duties. He’d had to bury his brother as well after the woman Athos loved and had married killed him.

He sat on his horse, staring up at the woman he’d committed himself to for all time. He could only think of happy days and forget-me-nots in the sunlight, wondering how he’d ended up having to sentence her to death. Her eyes were accusatory as the cart was pushed out from under her feet. His stomach turned and he spun his horse away.

Gascony was always beautiful in the spring, he remembered as he rode off. He hadn’t been there in twenty years. Little d’Artagnan would be turning twenty-five, his mind supplied as he raced through the countryside. Maybe, he never should have listened to his father and gotten a commission. Maybe all he should have done was continue his annual wanderings to Lupiac and helped raise that sweet little boy he cared so much for.

_Or maybe, I should just shoot myself and end my suffering_ , he thought as bitter tears – ones filled with more pain than he’d shed when he’d sentenced his wife – streamed down his face in the spring rain of Gascony. He knelt in the mud before an old tree he remembered from happier days, his blue eyes staring at the charred and overgrown remains of what had been a farmhouse and barn. 

The family was dead; killed by bandits who’d been bored during the late winter of the year Athos had gone to Paris rather than Gascony. The father had been shot. The mother, who had been pregnant with a second child, had also been shot. The home and barn had been burned down around them. At least, that was what he was told by an old widow as he’d come up to the charred destruction as the sun was setting.

The boy…he’d been carried off. No one in the village thought his fate fair but no one had been able to do anything either. The men who’d come through scared the people more than the King for they had killed anyone with a sword. Athos couldn’t bring himself to search through the ashes and debris for anything to prove the villagers right or wrong, though, part of him feared proving them to be either. 

He remained under the tree that night, the rain pounding onto him as he cried and screamed himself hoarse. Was this what Aramis had felt when he’d awoken to death and blood in Savoy? Was this what the elder Musketeers meant when they spoke of battle being worse than he could imagine? 

He’d just hung his wife for god’s sake and he was crying more over the loss of a boy he hadn’t seen in twenty years than he had over her? It was the spooked horse all over again. Only, it was worse because he knew he’d never see the child again. This wasn’t a lucky thing. This was a murder, an execution of an entire family. 

Just because d’Artagnan had been carried off, didn’t mean he was still alive. Athos knew of slave traders, of human trafficking, and of brothels that looked for people young and malleable. Also, if Athos remembered correctly, the boy had a mouth on him when he decided he disliked something or someone. Athos could remember d’Artagnan ripping into a bigger boy for pulling on a girl’s hair. His stomach emptied itself into the mud at the thought of what would have happened if d’Artagnan were stupid enough to repeat the situation in the company of men who killed without blinking.

The rain continued to pound onto him as he rode into Paris, head bowed as he found his tears drying out. Athos’ lip curled in a silent snarl as he thought of the possibilities of what could have befallen that child. He forced himself to swallow his anger – and ill thoughts – as he dismounted in the training yard of the Musketeers though. That sort of expression would not sit well with Tréville if he saw it while being asked for a reinstatement. And Athos needed something to do to keep himself busy and occupied.

He ignored Porthos and Aramis as they gawked at his soaked form when he stormed past them, up the stairs to Tréville’s office. He all but slammed the door open, a startled Tréville almost dropping his reports. Athos knew he must look a right state but the reactions weren’t helping him keep the anger – or the guilt – at bay.

“I can be taken off the reserves list now,” he ground out. 

Tréville stared for a moment before nodding at him, muttering about Athos would be the one seeing the seamstress himself as well as the smithy. As if Athos would have it any other way.

He turned to leave when Tréville told Athos he had the two perfect men to work with. Athos paused at the door, taking a deep breath before asking who he was to be partnered with. Tréville smirked at him and his stomach sank to the floor as the man spoke the names he knew well.

Porthos and Aramis. 

Athos was truly curious what wrong turn he’d taken in life as he stumbled down the steps and into the warmth of the barracks. While he’d known the place to usually be full of men fresh from a mission or new recruits, he found it currently empty save for Aramis and Porthos who sat near the fire.

He stumbled over to them, eyes glazed at the very sight of a wine bottle between them. They watched him snatch it up and drain it in silence before asking if he wanted to sit. The barracks remained silent past the thudding of rain and the crackle of the fire. Athos found himself draining bottle after bottle ad Porthos and Aramis began to frown heavily at him.

“Woman troubles,” Aramis said behind his mug. Porthos nodded with his eyes fixed on anything that wasn’t Athos.

“A death,” Porthos muttered into his cup, his voice echoing into it with a hollow quality.

“Definitely,” Aramis murmured before he crossed himself, the fire gleaming against his mustache and goatee. 

Athos frowned at the two, trying very hard to not notice how alike they were. They’d cut their facial hair the same way, held themselves like mirror images of each other, and even seemed to communicate within silence. Since he’d left fifteen years ago, they’d become like he had been with Thomas; near inseparable. It also reminded him of the non-bloodline brotherhood he’d had in Gascony which only made his stomach roll and his heart clench.

“Maybe I just wanted to drink,” he snarled.

The two looked at him like they didn’t really believe him but they didn’t press. They simply continued to drink with him in companionable silence. As night drew close, they hauled him to a bed, pulling a bottle from his fingers as they shoved his head into a pillow and ordered him to sleep it off.

The following morning, he awoke to their dragging him from the bed and to a table, ordering him to eat. Porthos kept a firm hand on his shoulder when he tried to avoid the very sight of food while Aramis threatened to shove said food down his throat. They then dragged him to the smithy to have his sword evaluated and a few muskets, pistols, and knives as well as to the seamstress to have his uniform fitted.

Paris was as loud and crowded as he remembered. Tiny streets with looming buildings got smaller thanks to stalls lining the sides and people meandering about without clear purpose. His side was slammed into by children rushing past on occasion and he found himself checking his purse unconsciously. One girl in particular caught his eye as her fiery hair flashed past him as she called for someone to wait for her.

“So, uniform’s been paid for,” Aramis murmured as they wandered back into the barracks.

“Weapons purchased,” Porthos affirmed as he dropped the weapons and the new belts onto the table in the training yard. 

“It seems you’re shaping back up just fine,” Aramis stated. 

Athos ignored the jab as he dug through the leather and metal to find buckles and holsters. He arranged the mess onto his waist with deft hands as Aramis and Porthos discussed someone called Radha and another person called Charlotte and if they were doing well. There was a mention of a boy but no name was given. There was a question as to his age from Aramis and Porthos confirmed twenty-five. Athos' fingers fumbled at the age, his thoughts turning dark again.

The redressing came to an abrupt halt when Tréville called at them all from his balcony. There was something for them to do, informants having left word with him or some such. Athos didn’t care. He just wanted the distraction. Anything to stop wondering which turn he should have taken in life to have avoided his current heartache.


	8. Highway Robbers: Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's Musketeers. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.
> 
> Ages in this chapter:  
> Athos: 47  
> Porthos: 41  
> Aramis: 40  
> d'Artagnan: 30

Rain pounded down onto the inn that sat in the middle of nowhere on the road towards Paris. A rider reined his horse through the mud, cloak plastered to his lean form as he urged his heavy footed animal on for the dryness of the barn ahead. While alone, the rider was not unarmed, a sword clicking against the horse’s side as it marched through the mud. The sword had apparently been the only thing left that he could claim from his past besides the rider pulled the reins as he entered the small yard between the inn and the barn, eyelashes and dark bangs dripping from the rain.

He glanced between the door of the inn and the great barn door, deciding he should stable his horse first. He could untack it after he inquired about the room. It would make it so he’d only untack his mount once should he find there to be no rooms available but be able to sleep in the barn – if he managed to talk the innkeeper into such a notion. As little he had against sleeping on hard ground with only his saddle for a pillow, he would have liked a bed as well as a hot bath.

Paris may be only a few hours away but it would still be there in the morning.

He took his time dismounting and slipping the reins over the Friesian’s large head that spoke of possible Percheron or Andalusian ancestry. Maybe even plow animal considering the small farming town he’d purchased it from. Lupiac had been as rustic and beautiful as he remembered. Gascony remained, for the most part, untroubled despite the presence of a rather rough man who stole tax money. The rider had not run into him though and hadn’t felt it wise to remain near either; old memories stinging him to leave before such an occurrence could happen.

The mare rocked on her haunches as he led her to the barn, the rain turning into a hollow drum as they marched under the wood roofing. She huffed at him in clear appreciation as he led her to an empty stall and began to rub her down where he could. He loosened the girth of the saddle, unwilling to leave her without some room to breathe. He wasn’t worried about the saddle slipping any more now that he wasn’t mounted. Though he wasn’t untacking her completely, he wasn’t going to leave her uncomfortable either.

He slipped her some oats from his pack to the mare as he smoothed a hand over her velvety nose. He whispered at her for being a good girl, putting up with him and the weather for the last few days. He promised her that Paris was not far off and he’d make sure she got a good home. She gave a nicker as she bumped his shoulder with her nose. He was chuckling at her playful antics, having dealt with them all through his journey. He even took some time to check over his weaponry as he wandered around the mare to arrange the room.

Two men in cloaks and masks stood at the door as if too greet him. They didn’t bother hiding the pistols on their belts and in their hands. Half the brims of their hats were pinned back by a metal Fleur-de-lis. The rider stared at the guns like he didn’t understand their very presence as the men stalked towards him. He could hear other horses outside in the rain, men yelling out orders for money to be handed over as his brain slowly supplied he was about to be attacked.

He took it in stride though, seeing as attacks from unknown people wasn’t something he was new to. He’d grown up with it in Paris and he could hold his own just fine. He just wished he didn’t have the rain soaked cloak hindering his movements. He’d grown up with fights being what most would call unfair being damn near scheduled in between finding food and clothes. The rider was confident in his skills as the first fist sailed towards him.

The fight felt like it went forever, his sword flashing out at his attackers like a silver snake. That was the way of fights though. They always felt longer than they were, the thrill of scraping and scrounging for survival like a drug that slowed time itself.

It was ended when he managed to wrap one of the men’s arms between his elbow and side, aiming the pistol at the second attacker. There was a flash followed by the rank smell of spent powder. The second man screamed for a second before his body collapsed to the floor. The rider knew the stillness of death by sight well enough that he could only swallow at its heavy presence.

The man whose arm he’d trapped had been tossed against the wall with all of the rider’s strength, his hat toppling from his head as he stared at the sword in the young man’s hand. The horses outside cried out as they were kicked forward and the rider watched as his last attacker ran from the barn. The rider cursed as he raced out into the rain to watch the man drag himself onto a horse and disappear with an entire troupe of men. 

Frowning, he glanced to the open door of the inn. He didn’t want to be in the rain anymore and after the fight, his horse wasn’t going to be very patient with him about being rained on again. He may as well learn if anyone was harmed past the man he’d managed to shoot. Also, it’d be rude to leave the innkeeper with a body and no explanation.

A pudgy man wobbled into the doorway, eyes glaring off after the troupe. He cursed them, his hand throwing a sign at the road, and turned to head back in when he spotted the rider.

“Lord have mercy! You one of _them_?”

The rider shook his head, unwilling to speak to the man quite yet. He knew he was being rude but he disliked having to speak to people he didn’t know. He pointed towards the stable, cocking his head in an invitation for the man to follow him.

“This your doing?” the man asked, pointing nervously at the body before his feet. The rider nodded, chin dipping behind the scarf he wore.

“They looked to kill me,” he said. He’d known he’d have to speak sooner or later. It was only polite considering he would have had to speak to the innkeeper for a room. Though, he wasn’t sure he particularly cared for the man before him. “I didn’t take kindly to it.”

The man nodded, a frown dragging at his lips as he shook his head at the body.

“Monsieur,” the rider asked with a soft voice. “Did these men, by chance, give any notion as to who they were?”

“Hm? Oh, yes…they claimed to be of King’s Musketeers they claimed,” the man snarled out. The rider lifted a brow in interest. He couldn’t think of a single Musketeer that would willingly commit highway robbery. 

“Men like this can be over confident,” the rider stated, eyes drifting over the old man before him. “The ones who attacked me here may not have given names but someone who tried for your money may have.”

“The leader called himself…Athos, I believe,” the man frowned.

_Athos? It can’t be_ , the rider thought. Then he remembered that it was possibly not the same Athos he was thinking of that had done this. He may have only met one Athos out of many after all. 

He glanced at the body, eyes bored into the shoulder guard the man wore. It bore the Fleur-de-lis of the Musketeers that he’d seen on Porthos and Aramis’ shoulders after they’d gotten their commissions. It was such a strange image to behold on a dead man who’d tried to kill an innocent yet, there it was.

“Why so many questions?” the man asked.

“I’m on my way to Paris,” the rider explained. “I have friends in a Regiment of the King…You may be called a witness if I report this to them.”

“You’d report this absurdity?”

“I had to shoot a man,” the rider shot back. “Of course I’ll be reporting the name of his leader! It would only be right!”

The old man sighed, scratching his head in thought.

“That your nag?” he asked pointing at the huffing and still tacked horse.

“Indeed,” the rider murmured, hiding his fist behind his cloak. The man was obviously blind if he thought the mare was a nag. Highway robbery aside, he was also being rude.

“May as well let you have a room seeing as you’ll be doing me a bit of service,” the man muttered. “May as well make some money tonight.”

“If I haven’t been robbed as well you mean?” the rider sneered as the man passed him.

“Ah…right,” the man mumbled. He at least had the sense to sound abashed at being caught in his obliviousness. “Untack your horse and come and be fed.”

“Much obliged,” the rider grumbled. “I’ll be in soon. My thanks to you.”

The innkeeper waved at him as he stormed back out into the rain and his inn. The rider strode up to his horse, pulling her tack off her back and rubbing her down properly. She butted him with her nose, begging for more treats. He almost gave in when he thought better of spoiling her any further than he already had for the day.

“At ease, dear girl,” he whispered. “One night free of oats won’t harm you…” 

She neighed, her hoof pawing at the ground. She threw her head towards the body and snorted. 

“Ah…Right. I’ll move him then.” She nickered at him happily as he moved the body from the sightlines of his horse. 

As he moved the body though, his thoughts wandered to the friends he’d mentioned. As clearly as he could see them in their Musketeer shoulder guards and leather over clothes, he couldn’t see them – or any other Musketeer he’d encountered for that matter – committing highway robbery. He would not claim understanding all the complexities of human beings but of all he had seen of the King’s Musketeers, he couldn’t see any man wearing that Fleur-de-lis on his shoulder doing as these men were.

He patted the mare’s shoulder once more before venturing to the inn for the night, muttering to himself as he went.

“Looks like my visit to the garrison is going to be going a bit differently that I planned.”


	9. Highway Robbers: Part 2

There were mornings that really made Athos question why it was good to have a high tolerance for wine and spirits. His body being sore from his work was apparently not enough; his head had to pound along with it because he was too stupid to stop himself from drinking himself near to death every night.

Every morning was the same routine. He’d wake, peering into the depths of empty bottles if not finishing a bottle off completely, only to end up holding at the locket on his neck, the chain it was attached to always catching his attention as he moved. His thoughts would then darken with doubt that he’d been right in his decision. After five years, he still found himself thinking that he’d been wrong but due to his station and responsibilities, he’d had no choice. He dropped the locket, sighing again at his stupidity of still harboring feelings for that woman.

After dunking his head into the water bucket he’d pulled up through is window, clearing away any exhaustion and pain as he did, he went about stretching his limbs as he dressed, sword as a counterbalance. All his time as a full time Musketeer had filled his body with aches and pains he hadn’t known he could have. He was three years from fifty as well which meant his body was protesting rather loudly every morning.

Once dressed, he marched through town, face hidden by the brim of his hat, in search of his companions. Tréville wished to speak to them; Athos had asked even though there was no need to. Tréville always wanted to speak to them due to their being his best and, oddly enough, the center of troublemaking. It was a safe bet that Tréville would wish to speak to his three best fighters.

He had a clear notion that at least Porthos would make being found easy on him. It was early which meant cards with the Red Guard who could only afford to drink the cheapest of wines that were only available at ungodly hours in the morning. One could not guard prisoners while too drunk after all, and many had shifts at night which only allowed early mornings for drinking away one’s feelings.

_A rotten way to live_ , Athos thought.

It wasn’t the first time he’d thought as much of the Red Guard. Though, his current dealings with them weren’t exactly helping him think of them any better than any Musketeer did. Red Guards were commissioned by and worked for the Cardinal. Musketeers were commissioned by and worked for the King. Musketeers were liable to actually pay the working women they saw, were known to be kinder to those around them, and were the better fighters.

The Red Guard were a cowardly lot too if the poor bastard Porthos was winning against showed anything near to a pattern. He’d lost the game and claimed Porthos to be a cheat as the man laughed his whooping laugh as twirling his mustache, thudding his gun onto the table as Athos walked past him.

“What’s going on?” he queried in a soft yet cold voice. 

He knew what was going on; it happened daily with Porthos. Best to act like he didn’t know since he didn’t particularly care. Porthos was a grown man who’d lived in Paris all his life. Porthos didn’t need his help.

Porthos, still smiling widely at his current win breathed through his open mouth as he looked towards Athos. He was leaning back in his chair, over confident as always. He and Aramis were half the reason Athos wasn’t dead from wine or battle yet. Athos wasn’t sure if he fully appreciated the efforts; of if he ever would.

“Ah, Dujon and I were havin’ a discussion about personal integrity,” Porthos said, pointing to the Red Guard as he spoke. Athos listened intently as he wandered to the bar for a drink.

“You friend had the king up his sleeve,” the Guard snarled through clenched teeth, raising his gun. Porthos managed to look appropriately abashed and horrified.

“Oh,” he rumbled, nearly singing with delight. “That’s slander.” 

He smirked at the man pointing a gun at him the way he did with anyone who aimed at him for cheating in a game. His goatee disappeared behind the leather scales of his tall collar as his eyes flashed at the obvious challenge. The smile disappeared as he stared at the man before him, the ring on his left ear gleaming in the low light.

“Tell him Athos.”

Athos shed his hat, placing it on the bar. “Don’t involve me in this,” he grumbled. It was too early for this.

There was a screech from a chair being pushed back from someone standing up in a rather violent manner. Porthos made a noise that could only translate to being unsurprised but knowing what he should be saying in the situation. The only problem was that Porthos was probably trying to goad the man further.

“Shoot him and it’s murder,” Athos warned over his shoulder. It was far too early in the day for this nonsense. 

He tried to ignore Porthos’ finger tapping at his breast in invitation as the Guard asked who would care if there were one less Musketeer. He turned to the guard, suggesting a duel of chivalry and such. Codes of honor to be seen to and the like. He collected his hat and took up a post at a pillar behind where Porthos sat. 

The guard boasted he was match for anyone in a fair fight. Athos wasn’t all that surprised that it was accepted so stupidly, Porthos chuckling at the confidence of the man as he put on a glove. Athos really wasn’t surprised when the Guard kicked Porthos’ equipment from a chair and stood in his way, sword ready and claiming it was Porthos’ problem to get to the fallen weapons.

_Cowards_ , Athos concluded. _The whole damned lot._

Porthos slapped the blade away, dodging swings that were too wide and uncontrolled for a man to be calling himself trained. 

Athos let it slide for a few moments as people strayed out of the bar to avoid the flying stupidity of a duel.

“Attacking an unarmed opponent defies every principal of chivalry,” he called, a laugh rumbling at the back of his throat.

Porthos picked up a fork from a nearby table, holding it up in question. Another smirk graced the muscle bound Musketeer’s face. Athos bowed a nod, calling it close enough to pass. Their smiles were dangerously close to manic then, the Guard confused at the development. Porthos waved the fork in a circle, held it in front of his face, and called ‘on guard’ as he slipped an arm behind his back and bowed.

It was actually pathetic that Porthos was doing better with the fork than the man was with a full length sword. Porthos dodged with cat-like swiftness and batted the blade away with the fork like he did such things every day. The large man even managed to get a wound onto the Guard’s shoulder.

Athos, seeing that this could go on all day, took a drink from a nearby cup and began sorting himself together. He pulled his pistol from his belt, holding the muzzle in his hand. Porthos had caught the Guard’s sword hand by the time Athos had a grip on his gun. The man punched his opponent and kicked him away. Athos slammed the butt of the pistol against the Guard’s head. Porthos gave him a sad look of disappointment as the Guard fell silent on the floor.

“What happened to the code?”

“Oh,” Athos groaned. “Who has time? Tréville wants to see us.”

Porthos smiled and went to collect his winnings. Athos caught the mulatto man’s wrist and turned it to find cards sticking out from under the fabric. He smirked.

“Porthos,” he scolded, trying to smile over the pain of certain memories.

Porthos sighed, his chin falling to his chest. “Yeah, I need to work on that.”

Feeling as though there was enough of an acknowledgement in Porthos’ voice, Athos decided to let it slip. It was then he realized that they were one man short.

“Where’s Aramis?” he asked.

Porthos gave him a look that spoke a little too loudly.

“Tell me he’s not that stupid,” Athos smiled, his head falling back in silent laughter.

He should have known better than to ask. Aramis was rather smitten with Adele after all. The Spaniard was also smitten with courting disaster as a pastime. Porthos was the one who reeled his idiocy in – oddly enough – while Athos was the one who simply ignored it until it was a problem he couldn’t ignore. Adele however, was the Cardinal’s girl. It was a problem by nature. 

As much of a problem as it was, though, it was too funny that they found Aramis hanging from the woman’s window like a nearly caught thief.

They traveled back to the barracks in conversation after they’d managed to get Aramis down from the second story without killing him. They both gave the old suggestion Aramis find another woman. Anyone who wasn’t Adele.

“Why not Adele?” Aramis whined.

“I don’t know. Let’s think; because she’s the mistress of the most powerful man in France?” Porthos growled. 

Aramis naturally proclaimed he loved her. As Porthos laughed, knowing far more history than Athos did and therefore finding the statement silly. Athos asked if Aramis loved her or stealing from the Cardinal. They all shared a smile until Tréville called them all into his office.

There was the question on if they’d dueled a Red Guard. Athos, knowing they would have to lie, claimed they hadn’t under the justification that it was illegal to do so. Besides, Tréville disliked the Red Guards as much as his men. Tréville seemed to see through it, though he only showed it by claiming he only wished to protect his men from the Cardinal. He couldn’t do so if his men were fighting the Red Guard.

He then set about to business. Captain Cornet and his men had gone missing with important documents on their way to Shartra. King’s Work was stated before they were sent off for the monastery to learn if Cornet made the meeting or not. They left silently. No need to anger their captain any further.

~*~*~  


The rider wasn’t exactly pleased as he stumbled through the street, a hand on his painful side. 

He had found himself under the ever loving care of a landlady who wished all her commodities to be worth extra. All he’d wanted was a bed and dinner, no matter if dinner _was_ extra. Clean water and soap were extra as well, though, the communal towel was free. What was the point of paying extra to get clean when he’d have to dry off with someone else’s filth?

Dinner had looked unappetizing – specialty of the house his foot – and the fact he’d managed to get himself into a duel before it was even placed in front of him had not helped matters. It was his own damned fault for opening his mouth to an unknown woman though. He shouldn’t have bothered warning her clean water was extra but he couldn’t have known the fat Spaniard with her was going to throw such a fuss. The rider knew opening his mouth brought him bad luck, yet he kept speaking.

The woman in question had later taken his pistol from his belt as she walked down the steps, her companion forgotten. She’d kissed him, her hands pressing his scarf to his skin as she pressed him to the door. The touch of warmed metal against his scar made him twitch away, words of apology spilling from his mouth. As much fun as he knew a tumble could be, he’d prefer to not scare this odd woman with his secrets. Never mind how confident she was with his pistol in her hands. He excused himself, slipping the gun from her fingers just as the door closed.

Being one to wake early, he’d awoken to a bloodied knife embedded in the opposite pillow. While things were quiet outside the room, he’d taken the knife and hidden it in a broken board he’d noticed before dinner. He then collected himself for the duel only to find himself throwing his body out the window of his room when the landlady blamed him for the disgraceful murder of his would-be opponent.

He’d bruised his ribs. He was sure of that much as he stumbled behind a pillar to hide. He’d lost his cloak but nothing else and that was something. He had enough time to spot one of his pursuers before he was pulling a young woman to his side, promising to pay her, and pressing his lips to hers. The landlady rushed by with a crowd and he felt himself relax away from the woman.

“That actually worked?” he laughed just before the woman pounded her tiny fist into his side. Right on his bruised ribs. There was a short blade in his face as he groaned for air.

_I vow to never speak again unless it is truly needed_ , he thought bitterly as the woman yelled at him. In all honesty, he couldn’t really think past the pain so he could only stumble out replies and apologies before he collapsed.

When he came to, he was in the woman, Constance Bonacieux’s home. She was married apparently, her asking to be called Madame only driving home a point that he’d made a fool of himself as well as her. He apologized again, claiming he had to be somewhere. He had people to speak to.

Constance ended up ‘showing’ him to the Musketeer garrison, claiming him to be from out of town and therefore wouldn’t know the way. If only she knew.

“Who’re you even looking for?” she asked as they passed through the archway of the garrison gate. His eyes wandered to the three men striding to a set of stairs before them, overjoyed to recognize his friends among them.

“Thank you Madame,” he said before puffing up his chest to call to the two men he knew – and loved as brothers. “Porthos! Aramis!”

The three men before them paused midstride, all turning on their heels to gaze at him. It took a moment before Aramis beamed at him, raising his arms in invitation for a hug.

“d’Art!” Porthos called as the young man leapt to take the hug. He clapped a large hand onto the rider’s lower back where he could manage to find room despite Aramis’ arms being in the way.

“What’re you _doing_ here?” Aramis asked, a large smile on his face as he pulled away. His hands remained on the young man’s shoulders as Aramis looked him over. “You look positively dreadful, Lad. What’ve you gotten into lately?”

“Typical things,” Porthos laughed, shoving his fist against Aramis’ shoulder. “Right d’Art?”

“Naturally,” the olive skinned man stated, tossing dark bangs away from his brow with a toss of his head. “And…I’ve got a reason to be here too.”

“Oh my,” Aramis chuckled. “You sound serious. This must be something important.”

“Stop smiling then,” was the snapped reply.

“Easy Lad, he’s joking with you,” Porthos chided, a hand rocking the younger man’s head back and forth as he ruffled hair. “We’re fresh from a rather rough ride. Be nice.”

“I believe you were asked as to your presence, Boy,” the third man said. While the no-nonsense attitude was a welcome tone to hear past Aramis and Porthos’ antics, it wasn’t welcome at the moment.

“I’m looking for a man named Athos,” he growled.

The man lifted a brow. “You’ve found him,” he said, his once wounded lips playing at an anticipating frown. Porthos and Aramis shared the same expression as Athos.

“What’s wrong d’Art?” Porthos asked, pulling him away from the other man as Aramis slid to stand in front of Athos.

“His name is involved in highway robberies that have left people dead,” d’Art explained, his eyes never leaving the man before Aramis. Porthos stared at him in confusion. 

“Must be a mistake,” Aramis said as his hand rose to press against Athos’ chest. 

His face was twisted in disbelief much like Porthos’ was but there was a fear hidden there as well. The young man wasn’t surprised at the sight. Aramis had taught him to shoot as Porthos had taught him to grapple. Both men knew what he was capable of.

However, it wasn’t their presence that stopped him from making a challenge. It was Athos’. Looking past the beard, the healed cut on the man’s upper lip, and the worn look in his entire body, d’Art knew this man. His hands itched to hold the trinket that hid under his jacket and shirt as he gazed at Athos in confusion.

_How? How could this be? After all this time, he thought. Why you?_

“Get out of my way Aramis,” Athos snarled. “He’s insulted me. I apologize if I kill him.”

“Stop fighting! All of you!” Constance screamed, leaping between the pairs of squabbling men. “If men would only think rather than fight! There’d be more good ones left.”

“She is right Athos,” Porthos insisted as he tucked d’Art behind himself and held a supplicating hand up at his friend who was still trying to get past Aramis.

“What’s going on?” a new voice called. 

“Tréville,” Aramis breathed out gratefully. “Athos stop!”

“I asked a question!” Tréville yelled.

“That boy has made an accusation against me,” Athos growled, pointing at d’Artagnan.

Tréville glanced towards him with a sympathetic look. Porthos was explaining the upbringing he shared with d’Art while Aramis was shouting its truth, rushing to d’Art’s other side as he did. Tréville held up a hand before looking at d’Art once more. The young man blinked before bowing his head in respect.

“Your name,” Tréville commanded in a gentle manner.

“Yes,” Athos snarled. “I prefer to know the names of the people I kill.”

“Athos!” Porthos and Aramis bellowed. Tréville frowned at the man. 

“What’s he claimed against you then?”

“That I’m involved in highway robbery and murder!”

The frown deepened and d’Art could feel his heart clenching at the action. He was only becoming a witness. A witness that would end a friend’s life if he wasn’t careful.

“It’s not true,” Porthos breathed.

“I’ve already promised full cooperation,” Tréville muttered. “Unless you three can tell me you found Cornet.” 

He sounded desperate and he looked near to tears when the three could only look at the ground, admitting aloud they had not found him. Two men with helmets stepped up as Athos handed Tréville his sword with a numb movement. As he was led away, Porthos and Aramis turned to d’Art again.

“Lad,” Tréville said before the two could start. “What do you know?”

“They wore masks,” he admitted. “The innkeeper claimed one had called himself Athos of the King’s Musketeers.”

“They must have been lying,” Porthos hissed to Tréville. “Let us search Captain. _Please_!”

“There’s too much evidence,” Tréville said weakly, his eyes watering. “All we can do is go to the proceedings.”

~*~*~  


Porthos stormed from the court room, muttering curses at the Cardinal and his treatment of Athos. He knew Tréville had tried to gain favor as the witnesses could only claim a name and similar uniform being worn but not that they knew Athos’ face. The innkeeper claimed the death of a guest by a man claiming to be Athos. The young driver claimed the uniform similar. Athos had called that he’d never seen the innkeeper, that there was no truth to the accusations.

Yet, d’Art had even claimed it and Porthos had not known him to lie to friends. Tréville had only been able to tell him that Cornet had to be found or Athos would be executed.

He’d stopped short as the thought of d’Art spun to the surface. He’d come in with Madame Bonacieux, his face a bit pale looking. Was it possible the boy had fallen ill and Constance was caring for him? Porthos took the chance and barged into her husband’s home, Aramis right behind him. There, in the dining room stood not only Constance but also her husband. D’Art was sitting at the table, pulling his shirt down over a bandaged torso, his eyes distant and troubled.

A surge of protective instincts Porthos hadn’t felt since he’d been in the Court rose up for a moment at the sight. He made himself focus on Athos though. He had to help his friend and all he could hope was d’Art had been wrong.

“d’Art,” he whispered. “We need to talk.”

“Yes,” Aramis insisted. “Athos didn’t do these things. No Musketeer would.”

“What do you know? You must tell us,” Porthos pressed. 

Aramis’ roundabout way would take too long to answers. They didn’t have the time. They had to help their friend. As much as it pained him to lay into d’Artagnan when he was injured – or even with an expression like he’d seen a ghost – Porthos needed to help Athos. He cared for the man just as much as he cared for Aramis and d’Art after all.

“You were attacked yes?” Aramis asked. “Would you recognize them if you were to see them again?”

Porthos kept himself from smiling. There were moments Aramis surprised him still, despite how many years they’d been working together.

“They all wore masks,” the young man mumbled, his words almost slurred as he spoke. 

Porthos knew that tone. It was the one d’Art used when trying to remember his family or when he’d looked at his trinket for too many hours. He pressed his fist against the table instead of reaching to hug the boy he’d taken as a brother without meaning to. As much as that voice cut him to the bone, the fact that even d’Art was as unhelpful as the witnesses left his stomach turning. He heard Aramis sigh in defeat.

“I shot one of them,” d’Art said. “The body may still be there at the inn.”

There was hope yet.


	10. Highway Robbers: Part 3

“Alright,” Aramis muttered as they waited for d’Art to finish speaking to the innkeeper. 

The man was really yelling at the boy, angry at him for bringing Musketeers before him. The young man had shot back that he’d never given what Regiment his two friends were in and so the innkeeper was to shut up and help them. Either that or face the guilt of causing an innocent man’s death.

“What?” Porthos hissed.

“I know I taught him to shoot,” Aramis admitted.

“So? I taught him to grapple.”

“Who taught him to ride?” There was a pause as Porthos thought back to the journey to the inn.

“He does have an oddly good seat doesn’t he?”

“Aramis,” d’Art called. “It’s still here.”

“Lead the way,” Porthos said, his voice urgent. They had only until morning to get a pardon though so it was ignored.

The grave was shallow, which left Aramis frowning more than he already had been. Now, if only the man in it was someone he knew, he may have cared more. Porthos was quick to point out the man wasn’t a Musketeer but it was d’Art’s observation that he’d only shot the man once that made them all uneasy. Two holes in his clothes but was only shot once? Porthos clambered into the grave, finding the hole over the man’s right breast matched no wound. Cornet’s troupe had disappeared, he remembered as he mentioned what this turn meant. The uniform had been taken from a dead man.

Another hour or so of riding brought them to the road Cornet and his men would have taken. The most narrowed off section of road left little doubt of a possible ambush. The crows led them to the bodies that had been left without regard in the melting snow. Porthos roared at the treatment while Aramis turned a sympathetic eye to their young friend.

“d’Artagnan, you couldn’t have known,” he soothed as the young man pressed his face to the large black horse they’d secured for him.

“I know Musketeers,” he mumbled past tears. “I knew…I doubted the allegation but…”

“You’re helping set things right. That’s all that will matter later on.”

“Look at this!” Porthos cried, holding a coin up for them to see. The tail of the scarf over his hair slid from his shoulder as he turned for d’Artagnan to see the coin of Spanish make.

“You can go a year in Paris without seeing a Spanish doubloon,” he continued as he dug in his coin purse to produce another doubloon of the same make in his hand. “That makes two…in a week.”

“Where did you get that?” d’Artagnan asked.

“I won it,” Porthos ground out, “in a card game with a Red Guard.”

~*~*~  


Aramis was a bit surprised d’Artagnan only stood to the side as they threatened Dujon with bodily harm. He didn’t say anything when Aramis brought out the long barreled musket claiming to be pretty good with it. He was even silent at Porthos corrected the modesty. Aramis was the best with the muskets. Porthos was the best with hand-to-hand. Athos was the best with the blades. Everyone knew this of the three.

It began to worry Aramis when he was rattling off how he could miss as often as he hit from a hundred yards but rarely missed from fifty and still no word from the young man. He was quiet at the unveiled threat of which organ he should choose to hit first at ten yards, he and Porthos settling on the stomach because of the hours of bleeding to death. He was quiet for the promise of not telling it was murder if Dujon remained silent.

He was almost glad when Porthos had to gently guide the boy away from Dujon when the man started talking. D’Artagnan, not taking being attacked all that well, had asked who’d ordered the robberies, a hand gripping at Dujon’s hair and his face in the other man’s space.

They released Dujon after he’d led them to the ruins, trying to come up with a plan to get inside when they’d run into Constance. She was a fine thing she was; even if d’Art was bold enough to reminded Aramis she was married despite the entire idea being his.

The woman proved herself capable as she distracted the guard, though Aramis was a bit horrified by her being alright with only ten sou. Now, if d’Art weren’t so god damned fast on his feet and as reckless as Athos was when he felt invincible. What had been something requiring surprise had gone into an all-out fight. He and Porthos ended up killing most of the men when d’Artagnan reappeared fighting the Red Guard captain they were after.

_Who taught you to use a blade_ , Aramis wondered in horror as he watched the young man slash and hack his way through the guard’s defense. It wasn’t pretty but it was effective and showed far too much potential to be comforting. He had to yell when, after securing the captain’s sword, d’Artagnan nearly took the man’s head off.

“We need him alive,” he said only to later wish he’d let the boy kill the bastard in the first place. 

A hidden knife and an opportunity. That was all it was but the sight of someone trying to stab d’Artagnan in the back had frightened him. He’d known this boy for years now. He’d watched him grow and had taught him. He’d watched the boy keep up with Porthos in the little sparing sessions they’d shared together. The knowledge that d’Artagnan was quick enough to catch the man’s arm and slide his sword into his attacker’s stomach was almost comforting.

He ignored d’Art put his short cloak over Constance’s shoulders before leading her away with whispered words. Instead, he helped Porthos sort through the stolen uniforms, smiling at the break. Even with their main target dead, the uniforms and Dujon’s confession would be enough for a pardon.

~*~*~  


Athos wanted to drink himself to death.

No matter how glad he was that his friends had stopped his execution, he was still annoyed that he hadn’t been able to feel death. It may not wipe him of guilt as the priest suggested without his confessions out but he knew he’d finally have some peace.

He’d even yelled for them to shoot. He’d joked it off, telling them he thought he’d finally shaken the two idiots – his brothers – off. He’d been amazed that their shared friend, one they hadn’t told him of, had come along with them. After claiming him to have committed a wrong, the boy still helped clear him? Also, why had the boy looked so hurt when he’d looked at him after he’d revealed himself?

He listened to the three talk, joking about irony, and explaining what they knew of his ‘woman troubles’ to the boy, as well as how the boy had his eyes for a woman he’d met all of once. Aramis left at one point, Porthos and the boy beginning a game of cards. Athos tried to content himself with staring at the locket about his neck and praying she had found her peace. He tried ignore Porthos asking the boy if he was alright, that he’d looked like he’d seen a ghost. He noted the boy wave the questions off though it didn’t look like his heart was in it.

He was stumbling home, knowing dimly that Porthos was following, when he noticed that the boy was turning down a corner ahead of him, a girl holding his hand. He was a bit jealous of that girl, though he didn’t know why. He stumbled further on until giggles caught his attention.

“Charlotte, it’s not _that_ funny,” the boy’s voice, ragged from what had to be lack of use, chimed in the dark.

“Oh but it is!” the girl, a small blonde haired creature with breath taking blue eyes that glowed amber in the torchlight. “To think, you go to Lupiac only to come home and help Porthos stop imposters discredit the Musketeers!”

She broke into another fit of giggles as Porthos slid up to Athos’ side. The boy smiled ruefully at her, a hand catching her wrist as she patted his shoulder with weakening strength.

“That’s Charlotte,” Porthos whispered. “She’s the same age as him. He used to never talk to her though…too shy with others.”

“Shy? Nothing about that boy is shy,” Athos muttered.

“You’re a strange case,” Porthos muttered, scratching his neck. “I think since he was talking to Aramis and I when you spoke to him made it easier…He usually doesn’t talk to people outside of his closest friends.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. He does the polite stuff like asking the cost of room and such but that’s a rare thing indeed,” Porthos admitted. He frowned then. “I’m real surprised he even questioned Dujon with us. Actually asked the bastard a question while getting in his face about it.”

“Why? He was helping his friends help one of their own. It makes sense to me.”

“You don’t know d’Artagnan though, now do you?”

Athos blinked. He’d heard wrong. He must have. There was no way…

“Come on then,” Porthos said as the boy and Charlotte disappeared down the alleyway, laughing as they went. “Let’s get you home.”

“Right…Home…”


	11. Sleight of Hand: Part 1

Radha and Charlotte had known each other for near eight years. Having grown up in the Court of Miracles and on the streets, both girls knew their way around the city and how to handle a knife. Both weren’t exactly sure if their thirties were going to be any more interesting than their twenties but they were sure going to try to make them so.

Charlotte, the passive one of the two, preferred to keep herself out of trouble and stuck to the shadows where she could. She was light on her feet and had nimble fingers. In the Court, her ability to lift food was envied and praised. She was humble about it though, knowing what boasting would get her once she stopped being seen as a child.

Radha, being full blooded Irish and fully aware that her red hair could practically glow in a dark alley, was a bit more forward in her actions. Like Charlotte, she too had nimble fingers and was quick on her feet. She had sharp eyes that could smell mischief and danger miles off. She was also one of the best at finding information.

“d’Art!” Charlotte called from her seat in the dark pub, her braids swinging as she waved at the young man she’d known for near twenty-five years. 

He smiled at them both as he gave his own small wave. When he settled himself into a seat, Charlotte latched herself to his arm. She ignored the press of the weaponry on his belts against her side in favor of familiar contact. She’d known of this boy since the old Father had come screaming into the Court, bellowing for Porthos, Charon, and Flea to be found. Those three had been the eldest children at them time and most adept at dealing with injuries. It had taken three years to get him to talk to her, and part of her knew it was mostly because Porthos had left and d’Artagnan was tired of Flea and Charon’s hovering.

Radha stood to press a chaste kiss to his cheek, like a sister who’d missed her brother. She may have only known him since he was nine but there was a shared bond between them that she treasured. He’d lost his family like she had, but where she only had questions, he knew and it saddened her that he did. She and Charlotte had been friends for a year prior to her meeting d’Artagnan and had met the boy through the blonde girl’s influence. She’d taken to him almost immediately, even though he’d been silent around them both for a few months.

The three of them were currently the eldest of the children in the Court, most of the others either grown out of the title or dead for one reason or another. Some had been amazingly stupid and gotten themselves arrested or some were really stupid and pissed off the wrong people. Their little trio, however, had followed an unspoken code that they’d avoid Red Guard, help those in need, and stay out of too much trouble.

“Anything new for me to worry about since I left?” d’Artagnan asked as he tucked into the hearty breakfast the girls had ordered for him. He was handicapped still thanks to Charlotte’s refusal to release his arm but at least it wasn’t his dominant one. Also, the food wasn’t too difficult to manage with only a fork.

“You were gone two years d’Art,” Radha snickered, her chin on her interweaved fingers. Her palms were faced towards the 

table her elbows sat on and her mess of curls she called hair tumbled over her shoulders and into her face.

“So?” he asked around his food, his face the definition of incredulous.

“So,” Charlotte sang with a laugh, “you’ve managed to miss a good bit.”

“For instance,” Radha whispered, her body suddenly spanning the small table so she could cup her hand to his ear. “There’s a man, Vadim he’s called, who has stolen gun powder.”

“No clear intention yet,” Charlotte whispered in his other ear. “But, he _has_ been convicted of stealing from the King himself.” 

“Sounds an interesting man,” d’Artagnan chuckled as Radha slipped into a seat on his right.

“Not the point,” Charlotte said. 

“What is then?”

“The Musketeers have been tasked to learn where that powder is as well as what Vadim plans to do with it,” Radha hissed, a sneer wrinkling her nose as she spoke.

“Ah,” he hummed, tapping his fork against the metal plate. 

His brow was furrowed in thought as he considered the implications of such a mission. Tréville was no idiot so he would likely choose his best men to handle this particular mess. The Captain of the Musketeers would also know that Vadim wasn’t going to simply talk to his men. Vadim wouldn’t have gotten where he was if there weren’t a bit of cleverness involved.

“They’ll need someone who’s not a Musketeer to talk to Vadim,” he concluded. The girls gave him questioning looks.

“d’Art,” Charlotte whispered, her blue eyes sparking with fear. “We’re information dealers. We hand information over and leave.”

“Right,” Radha hissed, her own green eyes flashing with a protective light he’d known for years.

“The Captain will likely put his three best men on this,” he reasoned with a calm voice. “That’ll mean Porthos and Aramis.”

“The two men you’ve been meeting with in the evenings?” Radha asked. 

Of course she’d know of that arrangement. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t noticed her following him that one night a few years ago. He’d let her follow him so she would know he was safe and not getting himself in a worrisome situation.

“I realize you and Porthos were very close but you know how Charon felt about him joining the Musketeers,” Charlotte murmured.

“And you both know how little I care about Charon’s feelings,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“Ah yes,” Radha sighed. “You and your hunches.”

“When have they been wrong?” he asked.

The girl pushed her hair out of her face as she leaned back in the chair. The wood creaked as she moved but showed no sign of breaking. She sighed and nodded in understanding.

“So,” she asked. “You’ve got some sort of plan right?”

D’Artagnan smiled. “Do you think you have a paint that will match my skin?”


	12. Sleight of Hand: Part 2

Weeks of normalcy passed before Athos ever heard of Vadim. 

Well, it wasn’t all normal. The boy Aramis and Porthos had kept from his knowledge would arrive occasionally with his weapons and the three would spar together. Athos had ended up joining in when Porthos suggested d’Art learn swords from Athos himself. There was a bout of Aramis and Porthos raving about what a master Athos was while the boy scuffed the soles of his boots in the mud, avoiding Athos’ gaze.

The boy had raw talent in every aspect. He may not able to shoot blind like Aramis but he could still shoot well. He wasn’t as big and muscled as Porthos but he was just as fast – if not faster. His swordsmanship wasn’t too bad, simply lacking in proper training and practice that Athos doubted he could have gotten in his current situation.

The weeks also drew in the random chancing upon the boy on the streets while they ran patrols. He would usually be alone, claiming he was trying to repay Constance for her help, but there were times he wasn’t. Charlotte and another girl – Irish decent most likely if her red hair were any indication – would sit on barrels not far off, giggling together as they watched d’Art speak to the three men. Porthos would joke back at them occasionally but it was apparent he was being kind in his jests. Aramis was Aramis as always, winking and tipping his hat at the girls until the boy swatted him.

Athos had also become aware that the young man was staying at Constance’s husband’s home. How the boy was renting the room without proper income was beyond him though. All he ever saw the boy doing was speaking with the two girls, running errands for Constance, and sparing with Aramis and Porthos – winning the attentions of the other Musketeers and Tréville. 

Of course, it didn’t help that the boy had also gained the attentions of the Red Guards. All his time spent around the Garrison had led to the Guards treating him like he was a Musketeer recruit; hatefully. Like any other Musketeer, the boy was met with snide comments and glares as well as outright insults. There had been a moment when the tail of Porthos’ scarf being caught by Aramis as the Spaniard spoke to d’Art and Athos was the only thing that had saved a rather loud Red Guard from a slow and painful death.

Yet, here the four of them stood, talking the boy through how he should fight a Red Guard and assuring him that the plan was sound and he’d be perfectly safe in the Bastille. They just needed someone to make friends with Vadim, learn where the gunpowder he’d stored was hidden, and find it. 

Tréville had not told them who’d supplied the information on Vadim – or who had suggested the plan they were now tasked with – but Athos had seen the pointed look he’d sent in d’Art’s general direction. D’Art was the only person who wasn’t a fully commissioned Musketeer but connected enough for the plan to have a chance of success. 

Athos had listened to Porthos and Aramis asking what was vital in a duel. When the boy said it was honor, Porthos had smacked the back of his head and muttered it was to not get killed. The mumbled he’d been raised to be a gentleman, a lit in his voice that made Athos raise a brow to question the truth of that statement. Aramis had asked if he’d been raised to die young which ended with a chuckle from the boy.

Athos had only been listening because, when they’d been walking to the duel, Porthos had asked if the boy had left a chain somewhere safe seeing as the guard would strip him of possessions. D’Art had assured Porthos that he’d left it, and the scarf, on trustworthy hands. That was about the time Aramis’ face went pale and he’d started stammering while pointing at the boy’s neck. Athos saw nothing wrong with the limb though when the boy lifted his chin with a smug smirk.

“You don’t have to do this,” Athos had said before the duel, his back to the Red Guard as he whispered to the boy. “It’s Musketeer business.”

He wasn’t worried though, he assured himself of that. This boy did not, in any way, shape, or form, remind him of a boy with smiles of sunshine in Lupiac. This boy did not cause sparks of jealousy towards men he saw as friends because they had better relations with said boy than he did. This boy did not laugh the same blossoming laugh, have the same colored skin and hair, or have a warm touch that reminded Athos of hugs that could cradle his soul and heart in warmth.

This boy was a young man who’d lived – and was still living and surviving – the life Porthos had managed to escape decades ago. The boy was strong of will and of heart which only made his skills stand out all the more. His skills weren’t to be sneezed at even if he weren’t filled to the brim with youthful vigor seeing as he could keep up with two of the Musketeers’ best – three if he really counted blade work but he didn’t; yet.

He wasn’t worried at all. Worry wasn’t even factoring into this conversation. At all. No.

D’Art shrugged him off in a manner that could really only be read as polite and rather…pointed as he claimed he could handle it. There really wasn’t that much choice in the matter after all. This was necessary.

Athos just wished the opponent wasn’t so damned enthusiastic about attacking someone who was only _associated_ with the Musketeer regiment. He also wished Vadim had chosen warmer weather to hatch this mysterious plot of his. Though, it was a bit entertaining to see what Porthos claimed to have taught the boy, Aramis’ knowing smiles aside.

It was not entertaining, however, when they had to leave the boy to the Red Guard. He didn’t really care for this part of the plan, no matter how important it was. 

They went through the scolding from Tréville about how they weren’t to be caught in illegal dueling and yet had allowed a possible new recruit do so. Athos felt it strange that d’Art had not told even Tréville his real name when it was fairly obvious that the man held some form of his trust. Porthos had mentioned trust issues once during the first week of the boy appearing before the garrison gates with shining smiles but Athos had seen the boy speaking – whispering really – to Tréville when no one was around.

He ignored Aramis and Porthos’ mumbles about being popular versus being unpopular, the larger man’s scared brow twitching when the Captain got in their faces about leaving a young man friendless, alone, and condemned. He had other things to be worried over.

Tréville updated them after the rest of the regiment had left, sounding tired and worn out from the charade he’d known of but was still surprised by. Aramis made a point of whining about the other men hating them only to be shot down by Porthos who stated the obvious reason as to why. It looked like they’d betrayed a friend, one who had wormed his way into the regiment with barely any effort. Porthos muttered about feeling sick about such thoughts from fellows but Athos could hear a protective growl behind it.

Tréville continued on about the brilliance of the idea until Athos muttered that the raw talent of a kid from the streets didn’t mean much; no matter how promising he seemed. Tréville mentioned the boy would have had to prove himself one way or another. Athos wasn’t exactly pleased to note how his stomach rolled at the idea that the boy was risking execution to help men he barely knew though. Noble cause and supreme need aside, the boy had all of two men in the regiment who could vouch for him and both had just helped in a charade to have him arrested. 

All to have him be put in a cell with a man who had enough gun powder for a small war hiding in the city somewhere. That was all without mentioning the men Vadim would have under his beck and call.

Athos could barely wait to be on the Queen’s protection detail when she went to free some few souls she could later. He’d be able to make sure they hadn’t just sent a young man to his death far too early in life.

~*~*~  


“How’d you do that?” d’Artagnan asked after Vadim made a coin disappear from his fingers. 

He’d seen magic tricks before but always from a distance. Flea and Charon had been rather clear in what they thought of the magicians in and out of the Court. He, Charlotte, and Radha had made it a habit to watch the spectacles from a distance though. Anything to annoy without getting into any real trouble.

“A secret to a good trick,” Vadim stated, with a smile on his face, “make people look the wrong way.” He produced the coin in his other hand as he spoke, leaving d’Artagnan a bit impressed.

Though, d’Artagnan had a feeling Vadim would probably have nothing on Radha’s ability to get a man’s purse off his belt while he stared at it. Hell, Charlotte could probably lift more bread out from under the Mademoiselle Cherie’s nose than Vadim could. He didn’t say anything about them though. No point in giving too much of his background away after all. 

He didn’t eat the food. After his last run in with bad food, he kept his mouth shut on the dead mouse in his bowl. He set the dish aside when the guard left, his nose wrinkled in disgust. He knew Vadim was watching him as he pushed the bowl away.

“You’ll starve if you’re not careful,” Vadim hissed.

“I don’t eat mice.”

“Shame,” Vadim muttered as he stirred his broth. 

D’Artagnan watched him, eyes cool and calm as the man began to eat in silence. He couldn’t see the man as someone who would steal so much gun powder but he could see Vadim as a thief. If he tried, he could see a desperate thief but not much else.

He settled into his corner and waited. It was Good Friday. The Queen would be here soon, a band of Musketeers with her. He could wait.

~*~*~  


Aramis was beginning to think he hadn’t prayed enough the day before for the success of this mission as he held the Queen’s head to his chest. 

Before they had gone onto the Queen’s guard detail, they had run into Constance, who was waiting as her husband spoke to Tréville about cloth for a new cape. She was dressed as prettily as ever but damn did she have an arm on her. His cheek was still stinging. He and Porthos had shared a laugh that he loved violence in a woman but from the looks they shared later on told Aramis the try to lighten their moods hadn’t lasted. 

Athos had been the first to say he would visit the cell d’Artagnan was being held in which – of course – led to his finding the prisoners were escaping. He’d had to knock at least one prisoner out so he could help Athos free himself from three prisoners as well as shoot quite a few more people than he would have liked for the day. He may be a soldier but killing was something he took very seriously. 

And during all of that, Vadim, his men, and d’Artagnan had snuck around the crowd of prisoners. Vadim had taken the Queen hostage, d’Artagnan behind him with a dangerously calm look in his eyes ad Vadim bellowed at them to back away. When Vadim yelled for the gate to open, it was d’Art who nodded with a confidence Aramis wasn’t aware he held. 

“I told you they’d let me walk out of here,” Vadim had said with a smug smile. 

“Hurt the Queen and we’re all dead,” d’Artagnan had hissed. “Let her go. You don’t need her anymore. Let’s go.” 

Vadim had apologized to the Queen, releasing her with a shove, and rushed out the gates. Tréville had called for them to shoot but the Queen, too dazed and frightened, was still between them and their targets. Aramis had acted on instinct, rushing to her side and dragging her to the ground, lying over her body as men trampled around them. 

“You still think d’Art was the right man for the job?” he heard Athos growl as he lifted his head.

Once he was sure it was safe, he gazed down to the queen. He assured her things were fine, that she was safe, ignoring the pang in his chest as memories of Adele surfaced. Adele was gone, had made her choice. He had to leave it alone.

He apologized to her, realizing the gods awful position he’d just put her in. Not only had he bodily tackled her, he’d lain over her without permission. It shocked him when she noticed a cut on his cheek once he’d helped her to her feet, her hand gentle on his jaw as she aimed to inspect it. That was what she was worried over? Not the riot, near kidnapping, or the fact that a Musketeer had shoved her to the ground like she wasn’t of royal blood?

As much as he appreciated it, he was beginning to worry over his sanity.


	13. Sleight of Hand: Part 3

The clanging of a hammer on metal made d’Artagnan twitch. He was aware of the cuffs on his wrists as well as those on Vadim’s but he found himself nervous at the idea of the man being well and truly loose. 

“My friend Felix thinks I was wrong to bring you,” Vadim crooned, his rumbling voice almost a soothing sound. 

If only d’Artagnan didn’t know he was a criminal that Charon would probably have gutted on sight. 

“He doesn’t like strangers,” Vadim claimed as the last cuff was hammered off his wrist. “Especially not ones that associate with Musketeers.” 

Felix continued to glare at d’Artagnan as if to prove Vadim’s statement true. D’Artagnan wondered where they’d heard such tales from in such a short time. He stopped when remembered that he wasn’t the only person in charge of running information. He didn’t have time to wonder who these men were speaking to though. He had a job to do first. 

“I’m not a Musketeer,” D’Artagnan said as he clanked the cuffs together. “I’m a wanted man on the run with nothing to his name.” 

“Let me suggest another possibility,” Vadim said as he carried the stool they had been using as a balance point and the hammer over. 

He sat before d’Artagnan, a smile on his face. He took d’Artagnan’s wrist in a gentle hold, the rail spike in his hands only becoming more threatening when he yanked the boy’s arm taut, pressing the spike to his knuckle. Felix looped his arm around d’Artagnan’s neck, his other hand holding the young man’s head firmly. 

_Fuck_ , d’Artagnan thought. 

“We’re going to play a little game,” Vadim hissed. “I’m going to hack your fingers off, one at a time, until you admit to being a spy.” 

“And what if I’m not?” 

“Then you’ll be counting on your toes. But you’ll be alive.” 

“C’mon Vadim,” Felix hissed over d’Artagnan’s head. “Cut him!” 

The spike remained on the base of d’Artagnan’s right pinkie as he and Vadim glared at each other for a long, arduous minute. A clang of metal against metal was the only thing that brought air back to d’Artagnan’s lungs. 

“We can trust him,” Vadim determined. “I know a man’s character by looking into his eyes. I’m never wrong.” 

He hammered the other cuff off as Felix released the boy’s head. There was a swift argument from Felix’s jilted accent that was shot down by Vadim’s assurances to d’Artagnan of Felix’s lacking in smarts. The man welcomed him to his so-called enterprise, claiming he was going to build a New France by killing the King and Queen. He spoke loftily of freeing the poor and dispossessed but d’Artagnan could only stare at the warehouse he’d been brought to in confusion. 

There was something he was missing. Just what the hell was it? 

~*~*~  


Athos wasn’t pleased at the current state he found himself in. He was worried over a boy he’d met through a case of mistaken identity, been accused of murder by, and had been cleared by all in the course of a less than a day. The weeks prior hadn’t shed any further light on the boy either. All Athos knew for certain was that the boy knew Porthos due to a shared background, knew Aramis due to knowing Porthos, that he was housing himself at the Bonacieux household, and that he had two female friends who appeared on occasion. 

Well, he knew the boy seemed to like being around the garrison. He knew the boy spoke to Tréville in private on occasion as well. He also knew that the boy seemed bent on becoming a Musketeer if Porthos and Aramis’ shouts of joy not four days ago said anything. 

However, Athos found himself scared for the young man despite himself. The situation with Vadim, what with the Red Guard being ordered to shoot the man and anyone with him on sight, was a task he wouldn’t wish on anyone in the regiment. Especially not someone who was only a recruit – if d’Art could even be called that. 

Aramis’ arriving with a new rosary that could only have come with the Queen did not help his mood. Porthos’ exhausted expression with a hateful, knowing gleam in his dark eyes really didn’t help. 

“Queen thanked him for saving her life,” Porthos had explained. “Gave him a bloody rosary as he gave her the bloody Stare.” 

And then, the fair skinned blonde that Athos had noticed the night he’d been cleared of highway robbery came skidding into the garrison. Her eyes were wild as her head whipped about the practice yard. Athos had to push the jealousy he’d felt for her relationship with d’Art down again when he recognized the boy’s scarf tied about her long neck. He let himself think it wasn’t the same scarf, just a familiar looking one and the dusk was a bit chilled as the sun had sunk behind the horizon. 

“Porthos! Thank god,” the girl had huffed when she saw him, a smile playing over her face. “The Bonacieux house. Now. Quick!” 

“Charlotte what-?” Porthos had begun only to be left staring as she disappeared. 

“What was _that_ about?” Aramis had asked. 

“Who knows? But she and Radha talk to d’Art,” Porthos had sighed, pressing his hat to his head. 

When they arrived at Constance’s husband’s home, they found d’Artagnan sitting by the fire with Constance herself. The brunette woman stared at them with a flustered look on her face when she’d opened the door to find them. 

“I was just about to send her for you,” d’Art chuckled as he leaned against the hearth. 

“Charlotte was quicker,” Aramis snickered. 

“Vadim’s planning on killing the King and Queen; start a peasant rebellion,” the boy said. 

Athos blinked. “Have you seen the gun powder? Any weapons?” 

The boy shook his head. 

“His men?” Aramis asked. 

“Hiding.” 

“When is this supposed to take place?” Athos pressed, head cocked to the side in confusion. The boy had learned the plan but found nothing else out? What was he even doing? 

“Vadim doesn’t say much,” the boy mumbled. 

“He trust you?” Porthos asked, the concern barely audible in his voice. 

“Much as he does anyone…Which is about as much I trust others,” the boy admitted. “Felix doesn’t but I can handle him.” 

The conversation went on, the boy quoting something Vadim had told him in the prison about tricks and making people look the wrong way. Athos tried to talk the boy into dropping out when he admitted not knowing what Vadim had meant. He seemed determined to see this idiocy to the end though; even if his eyes seemed to search for Athos’ approval. 

Constance barged in then with drinks, muttering about finally being brought in on the charade. She slapped Aramis again when he told her it was a rather good play they’d put on, glaring at Porthos when he laughed. She left, voicing concern on how many ways a man could think to get killed, not knowing d’Art’s eyes floated to follow her every movement. 

“I think she likes you,” Aramis whispered as he poured the boy some wine. 

Athos stepped up to d’Art then, his mind screaming at him to get this boy out of the situation they’d put him in. 

“It’s too dangerous,” he whispered, his voice sounding like it had back in Gascony. 

D’Art straightened, putting his face in closer to Athos’. 

“I can do this,” he said, his eyes filled with a pain that Athos couldn’t understand. “Trust me.” 

Aramis and Porthos gave him silent pleas to allow the continuation of the idiocy. The boy left them with the name of Vadim’s mistress and her home. 

“We’ve made the right decision yes?” Athos asked. 

“Yes,” Aramis said a bit too quickly. 

Porthos waved his wine, his eyes betraying how he really felt. “Definitely.” 

“Well,” Athos sighed. “What could possibly go wrong?” 

Bonacieux’s shouting answered the question rather immediately. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he groaned. 

~*~*~  


_Never speaking again_ , d’Artagnan thought as he backed away from the woman from the shoddy inn where everything was extra.

He’d listened to Constance go on about how lodgers dying or being imprisoned, or being him was a terrible inconvenience. He remained silent as she claimed she wished lodgers died more often seeing as it made her life easier. He kissed her hand in apology only to have his skin crawl at the sound of her husband’s voice. The man, while d’Artagnan knew he didn’t know what was going on, was an idiot. Calling for guards to arrest a wanted man while in front of said wanted man? Truly, the man had no sense. 

He put up with Athos, Aramis, and Porthos filing out of the house and coming to his rescue. He didn’t mind Porthos and Aramis giving unveiled and veiled threats to Bonacieux if he didn’t listen to Athos’ command to stand aside. It brought back memories of his childhood when he’d been released from the Father’s chambers and Porthos’ overprotective glares at anyone stupid enough to scare him. There were also the memories of Aramis telling a shop owner off for calling him a thief when he was actually returning what had been stolen. 

Then again, Athos’ silent yet intimidating presence was far more comforting. 

He rushed off, thanking Constance for her efforts before he left. He didn’t manage a single street before he was spotted though, and running for his life down an alleyway. He knew of one cul-de-sac where there could possibly be an unlocked door for him to seek refuge but he cursed his luck when he found it locked. He’d been ordered to surrender or die as he’d fallen into a crouch. He knew his chances were bad what with his being unarmed but he knew what he could do too. 

Then, _she_ appeared, a knife sliding into one guard’s back and a gunshot ending the second. 

“ _You_ ,” he hissed as his breathing came in pants. “Who _are_ you?” 

“Your guardian angel,” she said sweetly in her red cloak and dress that reminded him of Radha’s hair. “Now, where is Vadim?” 

He remained crouched, a fist ready should she strike at him with the bloodied knife. She spoke of having a powerful patron, offering him riches and power as she sauntered over the bodies towards him. He tried to slink out of the alcove as he listened to the catch of the offer. 

“You set me up,” he hissed. 

“Now I’ve saved your life,” she shrugged, the knife swinging from her fingertips like she was handling a pipe. She pressed up to him, his back hitting the cold wall as she invaded his personal space like she had that night. 

“It wasn’t just murder that made that night memorable,” she murmured, her lips coming closer to his. “I only wish we could have done…a little more.” Her lips brushed his causing his breath to hitch at the jolt that raced through his body.

“You’re at the crossroads, dear boy,” she whispered as he head weaved back and forth, denying him further touch while also teasing him with it. “Don’t take the wrong path. Choose the Musketeers and you choose oblivion.” 

He was leaning forward to kiss her when he heard Athos’ voice bellowing his full name from down the alley. She slipped around him, placing the knife at his neck as she bid him farewell. Then, she was gone without a sound and he was left wondering where Athos had learned his full name. As far as he could remember, he hadn’t been called by anything but his nickname. The three appeared before the alcove, staring between him and the two fallen men at his feet. Athos bid him to leave, saying they’d deal with the bodies. He dimly heard Athos command Porthos to follow him as he ran off, pulling his jacket close around his body. 

He was almost prepared for Felix’s yelling for Vadim to get rid of him when he returned. He remained silent as Vadim made a point of explaining to Felix in few words that he too shouldn’t be trusted too heavily. He had to assure Vadim he’d been careful with Constance, who he had claimed to be his mistress to calm Felix only a few hours prior. Felix was far too jumpy for his liking but he didn’t say that aloud. He settled down after Vadim ordered he ask for conjugal visits with her. 

~*~*~  


Suzette wasn’t what Aramis would have called a believable liar but she wasn’t exactly bad. There was just a feeling she was distracting them from something as he and Athos spoke to her about Vadim. 

She claimed not reporting his presence for her own wish to not get involved with the Guards. Understandable considering her line of work. She admitted her closeness with the man which was also highly believable considering she was the one he’d been caught with. She claimed Vadim asked her to leave with him but she’d declined. That was believable due to her wish to avoid the Guards. She joked about what she usually did with Musketeers present when Athos suggested having her whipped to get the truth. 

She admitted to being a scullery maid when she’d met Vadim, claiming him to have been a servant at the Louver Palace. She even explained that Vadim had a long hatred for the King, breaking promises to the people, which went along with the claims d’Artagnan had brought to them the night prior. She went on to promise she didn’t know what Vadim was doing or where he was. She joked polishing swords should they be off duty which was something Aramis had expected. 

He still voiced his concern that she was covering, as he felt any lover should and would do for the other, for Vadim to Athos. He remained nearby as Athos left to tell Tréville the news. 

~*~*~  


The Cardinal hadn’t seemed very happy that ‘their agent’ wasn’t getting very far in gathering information. He did seem rather surprised at Vadim once being a servant to the crown, sending Athos to the First Gentleman of the Bedchamber. As he had waited to be dismissed, he listened to Tréville and the Cardinal come up with the idea that Vadim would use the traditional showing of the royal family after Easter Mass for his attack. 

The three of them tried to talk the King into using decoys to lure Vadim out. Athos tried to assure them they could catch the perpetrators, hopefully without a shot being fired, but the Queen made the point that their faces were too well known. They would have to be there for a lure to even work. She spoke her confidence in Tréville’s men’s abilities and King Louis claimed he wished to, like his father, never shirk public obligations. His father’s assassination was brought up by the Cardinal only to have it shot down with a pointed statement that common sense was for commoners, not kings. 

The First Gentleman was more forthcoming in information in Vadim’s servitude. He had been kitchen staff, with no access to the King. It quickly came to light that Vadim had stolen something from the Queen’s jewelry. A diamond pendant from the Queen’s apartments and Vadim had managed a disappearing act. He and Tréville were shown to the royal vault, the walls glittering golden from the jewels within. Athos couldn’t spot a way into the chamber past the hall they’d entered through. 

As he stared down at the one empty pillow in the chamber, his thoughts raced back to the prior night. His hand gripped the pommel of his sword in frustration and regret. Sometime while he and Aramis had been dealing with the bodies, he’d realized he was pushing an image onto the young man who’d appeared before him. He’d called out the name he’d thought he’d heard Porthos say because of the moment of abject fear that had coursed through him. He was mistaking d’Art for a boy he’d lost. 

He knew he was being stupid, casting Charles d’Artagnan and his brother’s images onto the young man who Porthos and Aramis hovered over like the mother hens they were. Athos had been worried because the boy was so young, clueless to the horrors of battle. Where d’Art had promising skills, Athos was sure the boy wasn’t ready for this sort of lifestyle. And this mission wasn’t something they – Tréville namely – shouldn’t have made him cut his teeth on. 

He feared for another life wasted. Yet, he was powerless to stop what was happening at the moment. D’Art wasn’t with him, wasn’t by his side where he could stop idiocy from occurring. If the boy survived this mission, he’d make sure Porthos and Aramis never allowed their friend to be in such danger again. 

The sight of blood on the floor in Vadim’s hiding hole left Athos colder than the rains from five years ago. He nearly had to bite his tongue to keep from yelling at Tréville when the man flatly refused to look for the boy they’d all put in danger, saying they were to protect the King before worrying over the boy. He did not miss Porthos being the last to leave.


	14. Sleight of Hand: Part 4

D’Artagnan knew he was in trouble the moment his eyes fluttered open. 

He knew Vadim’s plan, a bombing at the Church after Easter Mass. Three men with bombs, four others standing by should they miss their targets. Vadim had said he was going to have d’Artagnan do something very special, something that would mark his name in history should he do well. He’d been given the map and sent to buy wine. He’d passed the map to Porthos as he walked by the bear-like man, whispering for him to send it to Tréville. 

He’d returned to find the place filled with six new faces, Vadim spouting his plan and his trust in them all – brothers he’d called them – save for one. The word traitor was spoken and d’Artagnan remembered his blood running cold. Vadim’s mistress spoke promises of Felix’s safety when Vadim stared at him for too long, as Vadim raised his gun to point at d’Artagnan. 

He’d been called a spy and knocked out. 

He assessed himself with bleary eyes, trying to ignore the pounding of his head. His jacket opened and his wrists were bound to…barrels. He was sitting on one of the barrels as well. Vadim was squatting a few feet in front of him, a candle on a smaller barrel sitting next to him. 

“I was hoping you would wake.” 

Temptation won out on d’Artagnan as he asked where they were, his voice cracking from sleep. Tunnels under the Louvre, the ones that ran to the city walls for quick escape of the royal family until it had been walled up – history lesson courtesy of Vadim. The man went on about how he found the tunnels as he laid a long fuse that brushed against d’Artagnan’s discarded sword. 

“In fifteen minutes,” Vadim said as if he were discussing the weather, “that candle over there will burn down, lighting the fuse that will explode the powder stored in those barrels.” 

_Nice to know this is where it was_ , d’Artagnan mused as he glared at the barrels he leaned against. 

“Blowing me to pieces.” 

“Certainly! But, that’s not the main purpose of the exercise.” 

“It doesn’t matter what you do to me,” d’Artagnan sighed. “Your plan is in the hands of good men. You’ve failed.” 

“Ah but…You’ve only told them what I’ve told you,” Vadim chuckled. He seemed disappointed. “I even explained the trick.” 

_Son of a bitch_ , d’Artagnan thought as Vadim packed a satchel with a few grenades and left him in the darkness. 

As soon as the door closed, he was wrenching at the ropes on his wrists. He could get out of this; he knew he could. He’d escaped the jaws of death itself. He could get away from it again. It took far longer than he would have liked but he managed to cut himself free and cut the fuse. He gathered his things and moved to leave. 

Now, if only Vadim hadn’t rigged the damned door. 

~*~*~  


Porthos was livid. He hadn’t liked this plan the moment d’Artagnan had ridden off with Vadim; mostly because it had gone completely to shit by then. He wasn’t exactly pleased when d’Art, a boy he’d known to be able to snatch information out of the air, had come up with so little that first night but he had been willing to let it slide. The mission was hard and Vadim was an untrusting bastard on a good day. 

Having the entirety of Vadim’s men disappear under his watch had been bad though. Athos’ finding of blood that could possibly belong to d’Art had only made him see red. Tréville’s outright dismissal of the boy in favor of the plan they’d managed to get. Also, the cape of the official Musketeer uniform was hot and in the way. 

Aramis leaping onto a grenade – dud or not – was the last goddamned straw. His brother in arm’s kissing that damned rosary helped little. 

Athos’ revelation on the dub bomb made his stomach sink. D’Art had mentioned it to them. None of them had realized it though. None of them. And the palace was being blown up for their inept handling of the matter. 

He, Aramis, and Athos managed to pin Vadim in an underground chamber, bellowing at him to stop. There was nowhere for him to run and Porthos almost wished for him to not surrender. He really wanted to shoot the man. Thoughts of d’Art kept him from doing so though. Aramis stayed at the top of the steps and he and Athos stepped closer to Vadim. 

“It’s over Vadim,” Athos stated, his earlier panic gone. 

Vadim turned to face them, a smirk on his face. “Not quite,” he whispered. 

“Where’s d’Artagnan,” Porthos growled, no longer caring if Athos looked at him funny for the name. Vadim gave him no answer, smiling all the while. 

“Is he dead?” Athos asked, a barely audible shake in his voice. 

There was threat there as well, though one had to know Athos well to hear it. Porthos knew him well, though he wondered at the tone. Athos hadn’t shown any sort of care towards d’Art past his typical tolerance. Porthos and Aramis had been worried the man was only being nice because of d’Art’s relationship to them. 

But, if that were the case, why was Athos threatening Vadim without active threats? 

Vadim’s hands were over his ears then, Athos’ eyes gorged with another revelation. 

“DOWN!” Athos bellowed, pulling Porthos against a pillar as the wall on their left exploded 

~*~*~  


Athos dragged himself to his feet, coughing up dust as Aramis stumbled up to him. Porthos was next up, much to the relief of the eldest of the three. The gaping hole in the wall stood like an invitation, a cool breeze shifting towards them. 

“May as well,” Aramis muttered. 

“Right,” Porthos snarled as he righted the scarf on his head and prepared his weapons. 

The party of men they found were what they had left alive on the streets before Notre Dame, all of them scarred and wondering where Vadim was. Porthos, angry over the explosion and his unanswered questions, growled at them all. Hell broke loose again as the men shouted for their deaths. They dealt with them quickly enough, their experience far outweighing that of common fighters. The fuel of adrenaline from nearly blown to bits probably didn’t help with the odds either. 

As his last opponent dropped, the sound of metal meeting metal caught his attention. 

“Come on,” he hissed, rushing down the tunnel. _Please be the boy. Please be the boy._

~*~*~  


“Vadim,” d’Artagnan called from the darkness, his voice bouncing on the walls around them. Vadim spun, the fire on the torch hissing as it was swung about. 

“Behind you.” 

The flame moved again. Vadim’s breathing was hitched but his voice was near calm. 

“You’re full of surprises,” the man said. 

“I had a good teacher.” 

Vadim swung, missed. The torch blinded d’Artagnan for a moment, his position shown for a second. Another swing from Vadim that missed its target, d’Artagnan slipping through the shadows like a wraith. He let Vadim huff and gather his breath before speaking again. 

“This way.” 

They spun in a circle, d’Artagnan repeating himself as he disappeared into the shadows. 

“Over here,” he sang from the shadows he’d danced back into. 

The flame lit his features just before his blade snaked out at Vadim. Steel met steel as they spun and jerked towards and away from each other, sparks flying at the contact. Distantly, d’Artagnan knew he was hacking and slashing, his movements becoming a bit more formal as Vadim dropped the torch. He spun away from an attack, dropping to his knees before sliding his blade into Vadim’s stomach. 

Vadim disappeared into the darkness before d’Artagnan could grab the fallen torch. The clatter of running feet and weaponry barely registered until he was surrounded by the three inseparables. 

“So you _are_ alive,” Athos ground out past heavy breathing. 

“Think so,” d’Artagnan mumbled. He wasn’t entirely sure himself to be honest. The blast had knocked the wind out of him earlier and this fight, while short, had been exhausting. 

“Vadim?” Aramis asked. He held his sword over the torch, the blood gleaming in the light. 

“Wounded,” he said. “Badly. He can’t have gone far,” he added as he hurried down the path Vadim had taken. They passed dropped gold on their way through to a bent gate that led to the outer limits of Paris. The river was silent as they rushed to overtake the wounded man. 

“Stop there Vadim!” Porthos shouted, guns ready. 

“Stop!” Aramis shouted as d’Artagnan rounded the kneeling man. He pointed his sword towards Vadim’s throat, eyes steady as the man panted at them. 

“I should have killed you,” Vadim muttered as he fell to his side. “Ah well…it was a good trick. Should have worked.” 

D’Artagnan bent his head as Vadim breathed his last. It nearly did, he thought as he sheathed his sword. 

Aramis worried over him after Vadim stopped breathing, hands sweeping his dark hair back from his bloodied brow to find the cut Vadim had inflicted. As soon as it was found, Porthos was growling about how he wished Vadim were still alive. Aramis determined the cut would be fine seeing as it had stopped bleeding but he made it a mission to clean the blood from d’Artagnan’s olive skin. 

The conversation with Constance’s husband went smoothly, their explanation of why the ruse had been required accepted with an astounding lack of humility for nearly botching the entire operation – and nearly getting him killed. He hated the sound of his voice as he spoke to the man before him but Porthos had told him to be polite and explain the situation himself. He begged Constance’s forgiveness though he didn’t dare promise such things wouldn’t happen again. 

~*~*~  


“Are those forget-me-nots?” Charlotte asked as d’Artagnan stepped into their little corner. 

The bar was almost empty of the average man and woman. The street rats were beginning to sneak in, their purses filled with enough coin to buy a few drinks and a meal. This corner of theirs, however, was a no-man’s land of sorts; no one went near their trio this late in the day. Radha had knives and Charlotte never left Radha’s side. D’Artagnan was also not to be trifled with; even though he’d been gone for the last two years. The bar patron was also a friend of the three – thanks to a few of their good deeds – and he had a gun under the bar. 

D’Artagnan tossed the bunch of flowers onto the table with a grunt. He sank into a chair as if something were weighing him down as Radha stepped up to the table with a bowl of water and some bandages. She frowned at the bunch as she placed the bowl and cloth onto the table. 

“Have a lover already?” Radha asked slyly as she pulled a piece an old scarf from a hidden pocket of her dress. 

“No,” he mumbled. “Though…I may have an interested party dancing around in the shadows.” 

“She pretty?” Charlotte asked, leaning over the table with his chin in her hands. 

“Beautiful.” 

“Will we be meeting her?” Radha asked as she dipped the cloth into the water, a hand lifting his chin. “It’s peeling…At least it stayed this long.” 

“Weren’t expecting me were you?” d’Artagnan asked, fully intending to ignore her earlier question. He had no intention of these two meeting that woman. Not after what he’d witnessed. 

“Not really but that message for bandages was hard to ignore,” Radha grumbled as she cleaned the brown paint from the column of his neck. The boy smiled at her as she removed the paint to reveal the dark, jagged line on his neck. 

The message she spoke of had been passed to her by one of the younger boys he’d known to hang on their every word. He’d flashed his wrists at the boy as soon as his Musketeer friends weren’t watching. She continued frowning at him as he shed his jacket, lying it across the back of the chair. 

“Are those rope burns?” Charlotte hissed as he rolled the sleeves of his shirt up. 

“Yes,” he said. “They’re rather raw too.” 

“We can see that,” Radha huffed as she flopped into a chair, dipping another bit of cloth into the bowl. She wiped at his chaffed and red wrist with a deft hand that left no lasting impression on his skin past the cool of the water. She smoothed a salve over the raw skin before wrapping it with the bandages. As Radha set in on his other wrist, Charlotte gave a soft sigh. 

“That woman you sent your friends to speak to,” Charlotte murmured, “you should probably know she’s been killed.” 

“Killed?” d’Artagnan asked. 

“We found her dead midday today,” Radha confirmed. 

“Midday,” he mused. 

“She seemed to be packing,” Charlotte whispered, a hand next to her mouth. She leaned back then, pulling his scarf from her neck. 

Radha nodded, her hands lifting a chain from around her neck. “Her jewelry was left on her table though so something may have been taken from her residence.” 

“Something stolen huh?” he smiled, pulling the sleeves down to hide the injuries. “Interesting.” 

Radha looped the chain with his trinket over his head, her long fingers settling the trinket against the center of his chest. Charlotte folded the scarf in half before handing it back to the boy before her with a soft smile. 

“Are you planning on seeing Flea and Charon any time soon?” Radha asked as he looped the fabric around his neck, pulling the tails through the loop formed from the initial fold. 

“We’ll see,” he said, leaning back in the seat. “For now, I think I’d prefer to catch up with my friends. Maybe change the path of my life while I’m at it.” 

“Got tired of being a street rat?” Radha chuckled. 

“It doesn’t pay enough,” he smirked. “Not even in our business.” 

“So,” Radha crooned as she signaled for food to be brought over. “Have you filled the third on in on your name?” 

D’Artagnan frowned. He hadn’t told Athos his name but the man already knew it thanks to Porthos. Athos had gone on to explain that his name reminded the man of a boy he knew – and lost Athos claimed with grief welling in his eyes. 

“Porthos let it slip,” he admitted as he sipped at his ale. The girls frowned, knowing how he felt about his name remaining between only close friends. 

“That doesn’t seem to be the reason you’re so saddened yourself,” Charlotte murmured past her food, her cheek puffed around it like a rodent hording food. 

“…He…he seems to have lost hope in me,” d’Artagnan whispered mostly to himself. The girls gazed at him in silence, unsure of how to continue from there. 

Radha, having learned some of his story, had a feeling that this third Musketeer had something to do with that clouded history she wasn’t privy to. The way his fingers played with the trinket hinted to her that this Athos had probably been the one to give it to d’Artagnan. However, she knew her place when it came to dealing with d’Artagnan’s past. She knew to not press him on matters pertaining to what he was not ready to share. 

So, she steered the conversation to what she knew to be safe territory; rumors and gossip.


	15. Guns and Children: Part 1

Two weeks after Vadim’s death, Athos was told by Tréville that he, Porthos, and Aramis were to look into a possible group that was selling illegal weaponry. Supposedly, Vadim’s taking of powder had involved taking a few guns along the way. Vadim had only wanted the powder so the guns were lingering about the place. 

He’d searched for Aramis and Porthos for the better part of the morning. They had been late for patrol and Athos, having already looked to see if they were with d’Art, had decided to search the garrison. He was walking past the stables when a sound caught his attentions. 

It was a small gasp, and Athos knew the utterer was in pain by the lit of the sound. While it wasn’t unusual for someone in the Regiment to be injured, he had yet to get used to d’Art uttering any sound of that sort. He couldn’t even understand how he knew the gasp was from d’Art; he just knew. He almost barged into the stable when he heard Aramis growl at the boy to stay still. Aramis never growled at his patients. Athos had only ever heard the man give lighthearted scolding to anyone he worked on, though he tended to lose some of his humor when his stitches were ripped. 

He peered around the corner to find Porthos sitting behind d’Art on a long bench, his burly arms wrapped around the boy’s torso and his chin digging into the boy’s shoulder. The bear of a man’s eyes glowed with a dark light that Athos had gotten used to seeing whenever Aramis had gotten himself into danger. 

Aramis sat in front of d’Art, his ungloved hands smoothing a salve of some sort over the boy’s mangled wrist. The boy’s other hand gripped at Aramis’ pauldron with scrambling fingers as he clenched his teeth around a guttural scream that was threatening to breach his lips. It took a whole two minutes for Aramis to finish with the salve as Porthos struggled to keep the boy still. 

“You should have _told_ me about this d’Art,” Aramis hissed as he wrapped the mangled wrist, his eyes shrouded with concern. “I could have _done something_ about it sooner!” 

“It wasn’t that bad a few days ago,” d’Art huffed as Porthos adjusted his tree-limb-like arms around him. 

“They’re _infected_ ,” Aramis hissed as he tied the bandage with a bit more force than necessary. The boy gasped, his body trying to fling itself away from the offending pain only to end up buried even further in Porthos’ hold. 

“It wasn’t that bad,” d’Art whimpered as Porthos held him close. 

“Yeah well,” Porthos mumbled, “let us know next time. Can’t have you out of commission over a stupid scratch.” 

“You’re not even mad about the injury,” d’Art had grumbled. 

“No,” Porthos had said, his arms stiffening around the boy. “I’m mad about how they came about. That bastard was lucky _you_ got to him before I did.” 

“Indeed,” Aramis had hissed as his hands smoothed over the boy’s bandaged wrists. “Tying you to barrels of powder like that…I’ll bet they were behind the wall he blew out for his escape too.” 

“Obviously,” Porthos had snarled. 

“You…won’t tell Athos…will you?” 

“d’Art,” Porthos began. 

“No. Don’t. There’s no point in worrying him,” the boy mumbled. 

“Speaking of Athos,” Aramis whispered as he packed away his unused bandages. The bottle of salve rang against the others in the bag he always had with him. “Porthos and I are late for patrol. Overly late.” 

Porthos grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a curse. He tucked the boy closer to his chest as Aramis pressed a chaste kiss to the bandaged wrists he’d finished seeing to. A few other words were shared between the three, Athos missing them as he slipped back to the gate of the garrison. He collected his breathing outside for a moment, his head swimming with possibilities of what he could do, should do, could say, and should say. 

He resolved himself to have a word with Tréville about the young man who’d appeared into their lives, upending everything he’d been using to keep himself sane. He couldn’t fault Porthos and Aramis for having another friend; not when the friend was willing to help protect the King and Queen themselves. 

He strode back into the gate of the garrison, spotting Porthos and Aramis immediately as the two were belting their weapons to their bodies. He greeted them in a calm manner, one that surprised him, asking where they had been the whole morning. They mumbled that they were conferring with a friend, making sure he was feeling alright after…They trailed off, away from the explanation. He didn’t question them though, remembering the pleading tone from d’Artagnan. 

He resisted the urge to shake his head at the mental slip. He’d spoken to d’Art after Vadim had died, explaining that the boy had done well. He was beginning to wonder how he would distinguish the young man here from the boy in Gascony. 

“Vadim apparently stole guns as well as powder,” he explained. “Tréville wishes for us to find the weapons and arrest their holders.” 

“An easy mission,” Aramis smiled. “Where do we begin?” 

Porthos, however, was frowning. “I can only think of two people Vadim could have left weapons with,” he said. “None of them are good.” 

“That goes without saying,” Aramis chuckled, though his smile was waning. 

“Do you know anyone who may be able to lead us to these men?” Athos asked as he caught sight of d’Art slipping from the stables, his hands futzing with his scarf. Athos tried to not wonder at the boy’s ability to keep the sleeves of his leather jacket and shirt over the bandages. 

Porthos sighed, his head falling to his chest. 

“D’Art!” Porthos called. The boy’s head snapped up, eyes wide as his dark bangs flying over his olive brow. Porthos waved him over, his head not rising to face the young man. D’Art frowned, his brow furrowing as he walked over. 

“Yes?” d’Art asked cautiously once he was within their little circle. 

“We need to find a few people,” Porthos muttered, a hand rising to scratch the back of his neck. “People you tend to keep an eye on.” 

“Sounds ominous,” d’Art said with a sly smirk. He shoved Porthos’ shoulder. “Which people?” 

“Auhert and… _possibly_ …Therron?” Porthos said, his hands fisted and bouncing off each other in front of his torso. He refused to look at the men around him as he spoke, the brim of his hat hiding his eyes as he chewed at his bottom lip. 

“Auhert?” d’Art asked, his arm crossing his torso as he tapped a finger to his temple in thought. “No…he’s not been in Paris for months.” 

“So, this, Therron then?” Aramis asked, leaning towards d’Art when Porthos sent him a dark look from under the wide brimmed hat. 

“Therron…Ack, I’ll have to ask around on him.” 

“Only ask around,” Porthos said through gritted teeth. D’Art looked at the man like he’d grown another set of heads. “That goes without your asking Port,” d’Art said with an incredulous smirk. “No one’s forgotten the last time one of the Young Ones got too close to his house.” 

Athos’ hand was pressed against d’Art’s chest without his notice, his eyes narrowed with something akin to worry. He glanced between Porthos and the young man before them. He glanced at Aramis only to find mirrored concern. 

“This…Therron, was it?” Aramis touched the subject the way he probed around injuries, with a gentle nudge and deft fingers. “He likes his privacy?” 

“No…He likes…” Porthos was growling, spittle passing through his gritted teeth. 

He halted his words as he jerked his body to a halt. Athos wasn’t wholly sure that Porthos had noticed he’d started moving towards d’Art in such a feral manner, shoulders leading his body as he moved towards d’Art. There was a gleam in the larger man’s eyes that spoke of protection at all costs, consequences be damned. 

Aramis was frowning. “What is it?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” d’Art said with a dismissive wave, a hint of the bandaging peeking past the hem of his sleeves. “I assume we wish this to be wrapped up quickly?” He was looking at Athos, a brow raised in interest. 

“Quickly but thoroughly,” Athos affirmed. The young man nodded with a smile on his lips. 

“Give me the day,” he asked. “I’ll find something out.” And like a ghost, he was gone, leaving the three staring at where he’d been standing. 

“Quick little blighter,” Aramis muttered with an amused chuckle. He glanced at Porthos who was staring at the gate of the garrison, worry brimming his eyes. “Porthos, my friend. I’ve not seen you this worried in weeks!” 

Athos nearly bit his tongue at the blatant lie. They were truly going to heed the boy’s plea to not let him know? He wasn’t sure why it surprised him; he’d known for years that Porthos and Aramis were loyal to their friends. D’Art was their friend and, from all their actions, had been such far longer than Athos. 

Though, Athos could not help but feel the young man seemed to hold him a bit higher than Porthos and Aramis. 

“Not here,” Porthos hissed, pulling at Aramis’ coat as he backed up towards the barracks. “This is not something we should speak of in _civilized_ company.” 

They wandered after him amiably, sharing looks of bemused confusion as they went. Aramis managed to banter about his latest night out as Porthos led them to a room that was what sufficed for personal confessionals that could not be shared with Tréville. No priests were brought to this room though; only fellow soldiers who could either lend a sympathetic ear or a soothing bottle of something warming. 

It had been a surprise to hear from Aramis that it had been up some time after the massacre in Savoy. He hadn’t said it in so many words but it was clear none the less. Athos suspected that Porthos and Aramis had been the ones to start the tradition. They’d certainly dragged him into the room on a few occasions, never having him speak but always having him bring wine and brandy when they needed to vent about the Cardinal or the Guard. 

The door shut it a low click as boots scuffed the wood floor. Athos leaned against the window sill, blue eyes gazing down at the bustling street under them. If he tried, he could almost imagine himself in the old inn in Lupiac, waiting for Old Alexandre and his horses to rumble under the window with little Charles by his side. If he could just ignore the scent of Paris and the knowledge that the old farm house was no longer standing. 

“So,” Aramis breathed, all his humor gone. “What is it about this man that has you so upset?” 

“Therron…” 

“Yes?” Aramis pressed gently. 

“He’s a sick bastard,” Porthos muttered, his jaw tight as he paced the small room. It took all of five of his long strides for him to cross the room before he had to spin around to cross it again. He had his hat fisted in his hands, his eyes unfocused. 

“Many in Paris are,” Athos muttered. 

“Not all are like him,” Porthos insisted as he wrung his hands together. 

“Careful,” Aramis admonished though his eyes spoke of another emotion. “You’ll rub skin off your hands you’re not careful.” 

“You’d prefer that over Therron.” 

“Oh, would I now?” Aramis asked, his tone changed once again to something a bit dark. Athos pressed his back to the wall, knowing full well what happened when Aramis thought Porthos threatened or harmed; nothing pleasant. 

“Yes,” Porthos growled though it wasn’t aimed at them. He combed a gloved hand through his hair with a huff, head shaking as he swayed from foot to foot. 

“Just what are Theron’s preferences?” Athos asked. “We’ve seen many things on these streets so I doubt it should shock you Porthos.” 

“You can only say that because you don’t know!” Porthos yelled. Aramis was between the two of them in a beat, arms out wide and face calm. 

“Then tell us,” he said in a soft voice, as if he were speaking to a child, “so we can understand.” 

Porthos frowned, his brow furrowed as his head shook. He seemed torn to Athos’ eyes. Torn between explaining what he knew and keeping it secret for his own reasons. Athos knew the feeling, understood the dark corners in which a man wished to hide…things. He knew it well; considering what his past hid. Instead, he watched as Porthos worried his bottom lip with his teeth, wondering what could be so bad that it had Porthos this riled. 

“Therron…likes…” Porthos ground out, his voice dying as he tried. He shook his head again, a low snarl blowing past his lips. “Children.”


	16. Guns and Children: Part 2

D’Art’s return was reminiscent of a returning soldier seeing his brothers for the first time in years. Aramis had bundled the young man into his arms as soon as he’d seen him, nearly choking the boy in the process. Porthos had wrapped his arms around both once he’d untangled himself from his sparing practice. Athos had been standing with Tréville on the balcony of the man’s office when the young man had returned, smiling sunshine as he waltzed into the yard. He’d managed to keep himself from pelting down the creaking steps to join his friends and their – he dared to think – little brother as the three spoke. 

“What have you learned?” Athos asked, once he’d managed to pull the three off to a side where everyone would leave them be. 

It surprised him that no one had spoken a word about the scene Aramis and Porthos had just made. No one even bothered to do anything other than shrug and continue about their days. Tréville himself had only chuckled at the antics of two of his three best. It had become a staple of the day to see d’Art around the place after all. His work with Vadim seemed to have only cemented the boy’s place there. 

“Therron is in Paris,” d’Art said with a winning smile. “He’s had a few visitors but we believe that all of them were there for legitimate reasons. There’s at least one man we couldn’t account for though.” 

“Wait,” Athos hissed, a hand waving in front of the boy’s face to catch his breathless attentions. Confused brown eyes glanced his way, something lighting up within the chocolate orbs when their eyes met. That same feeling that Athos was the favored above Aramis and Porthos washed over the elder man, bile filling the back of his throat. 

“Yes?” d’Art asked with an innocent cock of his head. 

“You said ‘we’ just now.” 

“You think I’d run this alone? Are you insane?” 

Athos found himself sputtering an excuse that wouldn’t form. Aramis and Porthos were chuckling though Aramis seemed to have a dark glint in his eyes. 

“Children tend to run information on the streets,” Porthos supplied. “They work in groups. Safety reasons.” 

D’Art nodded with a triumphant smirk. “Well done Port! They haven’t turned you into a gentleman yet!” 

Athos pressed a hand to Porthos’ shoulder to signal for the man to be silent. He watched Aramis as the man looped an arm over d’Art’s shoulders. There was a glow of concern swimming in Aramis’ dark eyes that was focused solely on the young man in their company. Aramis pressed the boy to his side with a subtlety that Athos had thought to be nonexistent in the man. There was a protectiveness flowing in those eyes too; one that Athos had only seen from him when Porthos was in danger. 

“Radha and I won’t let Charlotte near this either way,” d’Art promised to Porthos before turning back to Athos. The elder man ignored Porthos’ indignant ‘I should hope so’ as he gazed down at the boy before him. “Therron’s guest was covered with a cloak so we couldn’t see his face. We only know that he visited him.” 

“So, you have no way of knowing who this man was?” Aramis concluded with a frown. D’Art shook his head but gave Porthos a pointed look. 

“I can find out,” he said. 

“No,” Porthos growled. “Not happening. Over my dead body.” 

He was waving rather emphatically as d’Art rolled his eyes, smiling away the clouds. Aramis sent Athos a worried look which Athos tried his best to not mirror. It wasn’t easy though for Athos had a sinking feeling that d’Art’s methods would include actions that they would have to arrest him for. 

“d’Art,” Aramis said in a hushed whisper. “Maybe you should let us go forward form here?” 

The boy glared at him as Porthos nodded as enthusiastically as he’d been waving his hands about just a moment before. Athos could feel his stomach sinking, his lips pressing into a thin line as the nagging pull of his insides began to grind on him. 

“Radha and I can handle this,” d’Art said. 

“No,” Porthos repeated. 

“Port,” d’Art stated, his voice hard and eyes cold. “Stop. I’m not twelve anymore and I’ve handled far worse than Therron. Besides, he won’t tell you lot anything.” 

“What makes you think he’ll talk to you?” Athos blurted. He almost smacked his hand to his brow for the out of character reaction when d’Art leveled him with a simple statement. 

“He owes me a favor.” 

~*~*~  


Aramis hadn’t ever seen Porthos move through the streets as quickly as the man was currently. The early morning crowds were nothing to sneeze at that morning either for the weather was turning warmer and the markets were already humming from new fabrics and fruits. They’d been searching since the morning thanks to waking to find d’Art wasn’t present in the dorm housing they’d shared together the night before.

They’d wanted to talk the boy into letting them handle things from then on, d’Art fighting them the whole way. He was ‘owed a favor’ and that was what his argument rested its weight on besides his expectation that Therron would never speak to Musketeers. They’d fallen asleep in Porthos’ room, d’Art and Porthos sprawled across the bed as Aramis spread himself over the seat of the window sill and Athos slumbered in the chair. 

Porthos had dragged him and Athos to the small cul-de-sac where he and Porthos had trained d’Art in shooting and hand-to-hand. Athos had been rather horrified when he learned _where_ they’d practiced shooting, hissing and spitting that anyone with enough sense would have called for Guards when gunshots were going off. Porthos had muttered about no one caring in this part of town where hardly anyone lived and those who did taught their children many of the same things as they had taught d’Art. 

After they’d found the boy not there, Porthos had gone wandering about the town, looking in every pub they came across. Athos had been silent after the argument over the training arrangements; though he seemed to be in far more want of wine than usual. Aramis was sure they were running out of bars and taverns when Porthos gave a whoop of joy. 

“Charlotte!” 

“Porthos?” a young girl with braided, blonde hair called back in surprise. 

She wore rags that had been sewn together in a macabre illusion of well mended clothing that hugged her torso and arms. The skirt, which was the most patched together of all, looked to have been made of three separate cloths of varying texture and length. It was asymmetrically cut, showing her trouser covered shins and dragging in the back. She was wearing male boots that showed proof of heavy uses. The braids in her hair were, intricate and varied in thickness as well as length. There were a few beads and the occasional feather weaved into the braiding that framed a soft face that had yet to lose the look of infancy. Green eyes peeked from behind loose bangs that brushed her cheeks. 

“There you are, sweet child!” Porthos called, sweeping the girl into one of his bear hugs. His hat fell to the ground as her arms accidentally toppled it from his head as he lifted her from her feet. He spun her about, laughing his deep throated laugh as she giggled at his antics. 

“Oh,” she scolded as he put her back onto her feet, her body bending to pick up his hat. “It’s all dirty now.” 

He waved it off with a snort as she batted dust from the hat. It was handed back to its owner with little fuss as Porthos commented on how well she looked. He introduced Aramis and Athos as soon as he’d placed the hat back on his head. The girl, Charlotte, smiled at them both. 

“Wonderful to meet you,” Aramis said, pouring a little of his charm into his voice as he held out a hand for her. She placed hers in his and allowed him to kiss her knuckles. Porthos sent him a warning glare. 

“Porthos, stop that,” she scolded with a giggle. “D’Art would have his head faster than you anyway.” 

“True,” Aramis mumbled, ignoring the slight widening of Athos’ eyes at the statement. It took them a few moments to whisk her to a more private alleyway where they could talk without raising too many questions from unwanted observers. 

“Charlotte,” Porthos said in a hushed tone, his body hovering next to her small form. She was shorter than d’Art though there was this air about her Aramis found intimidating. It was like he was with d’Art only there was something different. He wasn’t sure what it was though. 

“Yes, Porthos?” she asked. 

“d’Art is doing us all a favor,” Aramis admitted. 

“With Therron?” she asked. 

“Yes,” Porthos said, his eyes darting towards Aramis and Athos. “What have you heard, little one? What news has he shared?” 

“Just that he and Radha were going to have him repay them for something,” she said with a shrug. 

“He mentioned a favor being owed,” Athos murmured from where he leaned against the alley walls. His face was hidden behind the brim of his hat thanks to his bent head but his voice remained clear. 

The girl glanced his way for a moment before returning her gaze to Porthos. Aramis realized then what it was that was causing his unease around this girl. She held the same look in her eyes that d’Art had when he looked to Athos. There was a familial appreciation that glowed deep within the girl’s eyes that spoke only of admiration and love. Aramis could recognize it as something similar to what d’Art held in his gaze when he seemed to search for Athos’ approval. Yet, there was something lacking in that regard when it came to this girl. 

“d’Art and Radha helped him once,” the girl stated with a sneer. “Taught him a lesson along the way but not a good enough one in my mind.” She rubbed an arm as she spoke as if she were cold. Her face showed nothing but a seeded anger that Aramis wished to not breech. 

“A lesson?” Porthos asked, brave as always. He probably had less to fear of this girls though, given their possible history. She was a friend of d’Art’s and d’Art only had oh so many friends that Aramis could think of. And Porthos knew this girl by name as well as sight so it was likely she’d been from the same origins as Porthos. 

“He picked the absolute worst person to have an…interest in,” Charlotte sneered. Porthos’ eyes were dark once again while Aramis tried to convey sympathy towards the girl. She continued to rub her arms as she spoke, her eyes distant as she stared at something over her shoulder. Aramis wondered if it was something only she could see or if it was something actually present in the alleyway. 

“Dare I even ask?” Porthos snarled. 

“A lesser nobleman’s daughter,” Charlotte said with a dismissive shrug as if she gave little to no care about class and rank. All she seemed to care about was this other girl’s sanctity. It was well known that women of higher status – and even the slightly lower standings – were to keep themselves…pure. Even Porthos had known of that when he’d come into the Musketeers. 

“That is a rather…risky investment for a person’s interests,” Aramis mumbled. Porthos was fisting his hands together, his teeth ripping at his bottom lip. 

“d’Art and Radha got her loose and returned her home,” Charlotte explained. 

“Doing so against the rules I assume,” Athos muttered. The girl nodded, her hair clacking as she did. She refused to look at them. 

“Radha stayed long enough with the girl to get a reward while d’Art…” 

“What’d he do?” Porthos groaned. 

“Paid Therron a visit,” Charlotte said with a nervous twitch as she shrank against the wall. 

“Sounds like ‘im,” Porthos muttered as he scrubbed a gloved hand over his face. 

Aramis winced as the girl continued to shrink against the wall. He placed a hesitant hand on her shoulder to show sympathy, trying to prove he felt no judgment against her or d’Art for what she was revealing to them. He glanced towards Athos only to find his friend’s face as unreadable and brooding as ever. 

“What would he have done?” Aramis asked, his gaze on Porthos. The mulatto shrugged with a sigh, a hand rising in the air as if he were throwing something over his shoulder before it fell back to his side with a _thwack_. 

“Did he…attack Therron?” Porthos asked, his hand rising back up to fall on the girl’s other shoulder. She leaned into his touch, away from the wavering press of Aramis’ hand. The Spaniard found he couldn’t blame her. He’d have leaned away from the uncertainty his hand projected had he been in her situation. 

Charlotte shook her head. “I wish he had,” she muttered. 

Aramis’ hand rose, curling into a ball at her tone. He had met enough people to recognize that tone. The girl had been nervous since they’d brought up Therron and had shown nothing but contempt for the man as she spoke. 

“He’s one of those?” Aramis asked, his eyes dark. 

“He proved he could be,” Porthos growled as he shook his head. “It’s why the young ones aren’t allowed near his residence without at least two others.” 

“That much is clear,” Athos muttered, his head turned away. 

“So…what? D’Art just yelled at him?” Porthos asked. 

“‘Talked to him’ was what d’Art claimed,” Charlotte sneered before crossing herself and spitting at the dirt between her feet. “Radha returned to find d’Art leaving the residence, unharmed.” 

“d’Art got this idiot out of a serious charge, stopped an attempted violation of a young girl, and has been holding it against the man for…years?” 

“d’Art holds all his favors owed close at hand,” Charlotte said. “He never forgets who owes him what and he makes sure they don’t forget.” 

“Even when no one sees him for two years?” Aramis asked with a soft scoff. 

“Especially then.”


	17. Guns and Children: Part 3

Radha’s hair was wilder than Charlotte’s. Fiery red curls looped in ringlets that rolled over her pale, bare shoulders like overly bright rivers of blood. She was as difficult to find as Charlotte despite the curling flames on her head. Her clothes were just as tattered and patched together as Charlotte’s but where Charlotte had been wearing a dress over her trousers, Radha was far more daring as she wandered in men’s trousers. The corset about her torso was probably the only intact thing on her body and it was too big, the straps slipping off her shoulders. The white blouse she wore was also rather large, the sleeves slipped from her shoulders and over her hands. 

She struck Aramis as confident if a bit overly so. She had been sitting on wooden crates on the docks, waving children about the wharf with a smile. Her green eyes glowed in the low afternoon night as she caught sight of them. Porthos had waved her over and they waited as she continued on with the children. Aramis watched as she herded them about with an efficiency that would have made Tréville kiss her. 

“You know what,” he murmured as she danced over to them. 

“What?” Porthos asked as he swayed on his feet. 

“I think I’ve seen her before,” Aramis said. “After Savoy, after Athos returned home…I think I’ve seen her and d’Art running about the streets together from time to time.” 

“Surely you would have,” the girl said, a lit to her voice that spoke of Irish decent. She smiled at them with oddly white teeth for someone of her lack of station, green eyes gleaming with mischief. She had a bunch of grapes in her hands that she was plucking from the branches with thin fingers. 

“Thought the idea was to stay hidden,” Aramis snickered. 

“It is,” she laughed around a grape. “However, d’Art likes you lot and stopped being sneaky around you sometime around…oh…when was it?” 

“Sometime…twenty years ago,” Aramis said, his heart blossoming with a warmth he tended to only feel around d’Artagnan. 

She hummed around the food, her hand pointing at him enthusiastically. “Yes…Made sure you got home safe after a rough day.” 

“When was this?” Porthos asked, Athos’ blue eyes reflecting the same confusion. 

“A bit before I started to teach him to shoot,” Aramis admitted. “I snuck out remember?” 

“You what?” Athos hissed causing Radha to laugh, her body bending at its center as she hugged her stomach. 

“Oh you boys are a treat to meet in person,” she chuckled before she popped another grape into her mouth. 

“Where’d you get those?” Athos asked, his brow furrowed. The girl jabbed a thumb over her shoulder towards one of the ships. She’d lifted a brow, her head cocking in amusement, as she made the gesture. Athos sighed, nodding his understanding. He didn’t voice his feelings on the matter though. 

“That little alcove where you lot trained, by the way?” she said around her illegally begotten snack. “Wonderful spot to catch one’s breath when running from Guards.” 

“ _Don’t_ tell us that!” Porthos hissed, smacking her shoulder. They were laughing through the exchange, eyes glittering with similar lights. 

“How’d you find it?” Athos asked, his voice concerned. “Porthos can barely fit into the pathway we took.” 

“Now, now,” Porthos grumbled. “I did too.” 

“Surely,” Radha chuckled. She looked to Athos then. “I followed him there once; to be sure he wasn’t getting himself into trouble.” 

“Trouble like…Therron?” Athos asked. 

“That’s right,” she mumbled, her booted foot kicking at the dirt. “He’s helping you with that isn’t he?” They nodded at her. “Ack…that one’s a bastard if ever there was one.” 

“We’ve gathered that,” Athos grumbled. “Seemed to also have a history with your other friend.” 

“You bothered Charlotte about this?” Radha asked Porthos. The man smiled an uneasy smile. She scowled. “Remember the reason you, Charon, and Flea started cracking down on going out in twos and threes?” 

“Yes,” Porthos said, his head bent as he dragged his hat from his head to press it to his chest. She slapped his shoulder. 

“Dumbass,” she growled. “You’re as bad as d’Art as it is. Leave her alone on Therron.” 

“Right,” Aramis sighed through gritted teeth. He and Athos glanced at each other, an understanding falling over them. Aramis knew then that Athos had noted the tone Charlotte had used before about Therron. They hadn’t expected her friend to prove it in so few words. 

“Need something?” Radha asked. 

“Have you seen d’Art?” Aramis asked. “Charlotte hasn’t and we’re a bit…concerned over this favor he’s owed.” Radha gave them an amused look that was tainted by something akin to disbelief. 

“Therron owes far more than a simple favor,” Radha smirked. “He’s lucky d’Art didn’t bring Charon with him on that little visit…Lucky d’Art didn’t bring me for that matter. I’d have castrated the bastard.” 

“Flea would have cheered you,” Porthos chuckled. 

“Truer words,” Radha smirked. “No…In all honesty, Therron was lucky all d’Art did was talk to him. Maybe a few hits were shared but d’Art kept himself…civil would be the word I think.” 

“What was his deal with Therron?” Athos asked. 

“That Therron leave the nobles alone and not even consider looking at the kids on the street in exchange for our silence on that particular case as well as his…remaining intact.” 

“The exchange was your silence as well as that of the girl you two saved?” Aramis asked. 

Radha shrugged. “He wished to not be killed or harmed and not to be given to the authorities. D’Art made him promise to leave our little ones alone and to think before he acted around other children lest we _did_ hand him to the authorities.” 

“Sounds as if he came out ahead on the deal,” Athos muttered. 

“Not really,” Radha sneered. “d’Art paid further visits to remind the man of the favors he owes.” 

“Favors?” Athos echoed. 

She nodded. “Therron has impulse issues and d’Art’s been good at catching him before he did anything stupid. He owes a good deal to d’Art. Myself as well but I let d’Art have those seeing as I have other things to deal with.” 

“d’Art’s always been good at getting others to talk to him,” Aramis chuckled. “I should know.” 

“As should I,” Porthos grumbled. “So Therron owes d’Art favors for keeping him out of trouble. What would those be?” 

“Telling him when certain goods that should not belong to certain people are en route to said people.” 

“Well…there’s one last place we can look,” Athos muttered, turning away from the girl and starting to leave. Aramis smiled to the girl and turned to follow him, Porthos saying his farewells before he too followed. 

~*~*~  


D’Art had meandered into the garrison sometime while they were off speaking to Radha. He was with Tréville, talking to the elder man with a relaxed air that only he was able to have around the captain. Porthos had swept the boy into a head lock, the two guffawing as they wrestled about. Athos stepped up to Tréville with a dark glint in his eyes. 

“Where have you all been?” Tréville asked. 

“We were looking for d’Art,” Aramis admitted as he came up on Athos’ right. Athos continued to watch Porthos and d’Art play, trying to ignore the bandages as they peeked past jacket sleeves. 

“Ah…he’s given me an update.” 

“Therron knows where the guns are going, though he’d prefer your arrest be done somewhere other than his home,” d’Art called from where he and Porthos were elbowing each other. “The new visit will return tomorrow to finish making a deal for them.” 

“Are you two children?” Aramis scolded as he separated them. 

D’Art chuckled as Porthos grinned. Athos’ heart clenched at the sight. He was jealous, he knew that. Besides the memories that continued to peck at him, he wasn’t sure why. It couldn’t just be because of how the three acted around each other that he would find himself thinking of the two brothers he’d lost; Little Charles and Thomas. 

“Anything else we need know?” Tréville asked the young man. 

“Well…while Therron would prefer your arrests not occur in his home, I would prefer they did,” d’Art stated. 

“Why?” Tréville asked. 

“He needs to be kept on his toes.” 

“Alright then,” Tréville stated. “Athos, come up with a few men. If this buyer is making a visit tomorrow as d’Art claims, I want you all there.” 

“I’ll choose our best,” Athos promised. 

“Go on then,” Tréville commanded. “d’Art, I wish to speak to you for a moment.” 

“Huh? Oh, alright.” 

“Go on you three,” Tréville stated. “He’ll be fine.” 

~*~*~  


“You wish to speak to me, Sir?” d’Art asked the elder Gascon before him. Tréville stared down at him with an impassive, questioning gaze. They stood in relative silence within the elder’s office. 

“d’Art,” Tréville said with a soft glow in his eyes. “I’m glad to have your help as of late.” 

“I’m glad to help,” d’Art said softly, his voice ragged as if he hadn’t been using it. Tréville found it interesting that the young man’s voice spoke as loudly as a cannon going off. 

“They are your friends after all,” Tréville smiled. “I’m pleased at the changes I’ve been seeing in them since your…eventful arrival.” 

“My apologies.” 

“No need.” It shocked Tréville to no end how terse the boy’s statements became when they were alone. If d’Art wasn’t giving him straight information or around Athos, Porthos, or Aramis, his sentences became short, pointed. They also seemed to get very formal. 

“If that is all?” 

“Actually, I wish to apologize to you,” Tréville said quickly as the boy turned to leave. 

“For?” 

“Yelling at you about your injuries.” 

The boy’s hand gripped one of his wrists, his olive cheeks flushing. 

“You were right though.” 

“d’Art,” Tréville sighed. “Look, those three seem to have taken an interest in you. One I find myself alright with. I would hate to deal with the aftermath if anything were to happen to you…Do you understand?” 

“Yes.” 

“Truly?” 

The boy smiled at him, a sad light in his brown eyes. “Yes. Truly.” 

~*~*~  


Athos was sitting in a room in the residence of Therron the following morning, his head humming from the clamor of boots and clattering of metal against legs. The arrest had taken almost no time after they – he, Porthos, Aramis, and a few others from the Regiment – had made their entrance. It had taken little time for them to tear through the small residence though. 

He’d rushed through the mansion, Porthos and Aramis on his heels, shooting at anyone who dared to lift a weapon towards him. They had been worried their target would disappear. He’d brought three other men with him and they had been rounded up with a great deal more effort than Athos was willing to admit. 

However, that was not the current cause of his worry. 

The room he’d crashed into while apprehending one of the targets was occupied and while that would not have surprised him on a good day, this wasn’t a good day. The occupant was bound in rope, hands tied to one of the bed posts and ankles pressed together abusively. There was a cloth tied about his mouth as well, though it did not stop the muffled sounds he produced as he cowered from Athos. 

Athos had been surprised to find him, this child who couldn’t be older than eleven, but the twisting in his stomach had made him daring enough to try to step up to the boy. His prior entrance to the room hadn’t been the best way to make a first impression though. Athos had crashed through the door, wrestling a man he’d managed to punch into unconsciousness after all. It probably didn’t help he was covered in weapons that clacked and rang out against his body as he moved. 

His first attempt to step towards the child had ended with the boy screaming past the gag as he scrambled away from Athos. The man had halted his advance, the fear in the boy’s eyes freezing his blood. He wasn’t good with children when they looked at him while so terrified. All that would come to mind was little Charles crying as he shifted bruised ribs. 

He’d settled for sitting on the opposite end of the room in an attempt to prove that he wasn’t a threat to the child. The boy continued to watch him fearfully as his eyes darted towards the open door as the sounds of moving men echoed through the halls. He was scared. Athos understood that but it worried him that the boy wouldn’t allow anyone near. 

Porthos skidded to a halt at the door, eyes frenzied. Athos glanced at him silently. Porthos was panting as he rattled off that they’d caught the last few men and that Therron was complaining for them to leave. Athos’ jaw clenched at the mention of Therron but he remained silent. He wasn’t planning on leaving without the child before him. 

“Athos,” Porthos pressed. “Did you hear me?” 

Athos held up a hand for Porthos to be silent. The man frowned at him and leaned into the doorway. As soon as he saw the child however, he leaned back and ground out a curse through his teeth. Athos allowed Porthos to mutter and growl as he continued to watch the boy. 

A scratching sound pulled his attentions to the window. As he stood, he pulled his pistol from his holster as the noise only grew. He raised the weapon as a gloved hand clasped about the sill of the open window. 

“Easy Athos,” Porthos called. “It’s just d’Art.” 

Sure enough, d’Art’s head popped up, that blinding smile on his face. 

“Hey!” the young man laughed as he dragged himself into the room. Athos lowered the gun, his eyes fixed on the cat-like movements of the young man. D’Art’s lithe form seemed to have been made for this sort of thing, his torso weaving in strange ‘s’ shapes as he tossed his legs over the sill and slipped into the room. 

“Should have known you’d show up,” Porthos muttered. 

“Of course I showed up,” d’Art sneered as he moved to untie the boy with deft hands. “I had a feeling Therron hadn’t followed my instructions to not touch children.” The boy threw his arms around d’Art’s shoulders, sobbing with violent hiccups. 

Athos stared at d’Art as he cradled the child to his torso. The scene brought other memories to mind; ones of himself and a boy in the spring sunlight. He shook his head with a sigh. 

“Hence _why_ you preferred we made out arrest here,” he supplied as he holstered his weapon. 

“Exactly,” d’Art said as he moved to the door, the boy secured in his arms. “Hope you don’t mind my using you guys like this.” 

“Was it necessary?” Porthos asked as he moved out of the way of the young man. 

“What sort of question is that?” d’Art asked. “Therron can’t be left alone in civilized society.” 

“He won’t do well in prison,” Athos mumbled. 

“I don’t think I care how he does in a place he belongs.” 

~*~*~  


A few days passed before Athos saw d’Art again. He wasn’t sure how to approach the young man though, considering the events from the last time he’d seen d’Art. The Regiment had been congratulated on the apprehension of not only men dealing in illegal weapons but also a man who would abuse children. 

The Queen had been oddly vocal on her dislike of Therron, asking the king to not be lenient in his judgment. Therron was likely to be executed for his crimes along with the men he’d been meeting with. No one was happy with what happened on Easter Sunday and Therron’s preferences had only put salt in the wounds. 

D’Art had been yelled at by Tréville as well for not being forthright with his wishes on the arrest’s place of occurrence. Or at least, that was what Athos had heard from Aramis who’d apparently witnessed the heated exchange. Porthos had argued it was probably one sided, for d’Art wouldn’t raise his voice over something he’d apologized for. Athos himself had asked Tréville about the exchange and was left…as confused as Tréville had sounded. 

The Captain, while angered someone had used them in such a way, was glad Therron was gone. He was also impressed by d’Art’s resourcefulness and keen sense. Tréville had voice a hope that the boy would wish to become a Musketeer, though he wasn’t expecting such a hope to become realized. 

“Athos,” d’Art said with a soft voice as he sat at the table in the training yard across from the older man. 

“d’Art,” Athos replied as he sipped at a goblet. He wished it was wine but he wasn’t that lucky. “Any plans for the day?” 

“Maybe,” d’Art chuckled, his chin dragging the scarf up a bit. Athos tensed at the low gleam of a chain under the scarf. It was too large to be the one he remembered but it still tugged at him. 

“Well,” Athos muttered. “If you’re going to hang around, you may want to tell Tréville. He prefers the recruits be the closest things to outsiders as possible.” 

“Is that an offer?” the boy chuckled, his brown eyes glowing with a mischievous glint that made Athos’ stomach churn. 

“Only if you tell Tréville what you’re planning on doing with your life.” 

The boy smiled at him. “I’ll do that then.”


	18. Commodities: Part 1

D’Artagnan had been hearing rumors on the streets about the king wishing to speak to someone about breaking a trade treaty. Charlotte had been the one to confirm it for him though a few days prior, her mouth set in a thin line as she spoke. She wasn’t sure why this ‘Bonnaire’ person was so infamous but apparently, he was said to have many enemies. 

He wasn’t exactly happy when Aramis and Porthos told him who they were to bring to Paris the following morning. He’d offered to come along, expressing continued wishes to prove himself like Porthos had all those years back. The two of them were pleased with his offer, immediately informing Tréville he was joining them and Athos on the journey. 

Le Harve was a loud, dingy place with people overflowing from the brickwork about him. The salt air was making the paint on the buildings peel while the people seemed to exude a barrier of roughness as they walked along the narrow docks. He’d spotted Bonnaire as the man disembarked from a ship, wondering at the two men who began tailing the man as soon as they’d recognized him. He pressed the palm of his hand to the pommel of his sword as Bonnaire slipped into a pub. He had a sinking feeling he would prefer to keep his mouth shut for this trip but wouldn’t be able to…as usual. 

“Drinks for the whole house!” Bonnaire yelled at the door of the pub. 

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes before he too stepped into the pub. He spotted Athos and Porthos at a table in a corner, their eyes narrowed at the rather boisterous crowd, and strode towards where Aramis was sitting. He sank into the chair, trying to will his stomach to stop falling. He could see Athos whispering to Porthos as the two of them stared towards where Bonnaire was wooing a pretty serving maid over a feather of sorts. 

“Seduced by a feather? Really?” he muttered as he watched the idiot man before him. 

“Anyone can tell a woman she’s beautiful,” Aramis whispered. “Making her believe it, it where the genius lies.” 

While d’Art wasn’t wholly convinced that Aramis wasn’t at least a little impressed with the man’s skills at wooing, he was aware of the men in the tavern who seemed too preoccupied with signaling each other. Athos and Porthos were speaking to each other again, Porthos casually looking over his shoulder at the two new men in black who’d just entered. 

His mind raced over the group about them. One at the door, one at another table, one behind Porthos and Athos, and the two newcomers. One man had a chain from what he could see and the men in black looked as well armed as any Musketeer he’d met. He could just see having to fight through those men while dragging Bonnaire along with them when one of the men began to stand. Aramis pursed his lips, his shoulders sagging. 

“ÉMILE!” 

_Oh no_ , d’Artagnan thought as his eyes swung to the door to find a dark haired woman standing there with an enraged look on her face. 

Émile Bonnaire had the same thought run through his mind apparently as he scrambled away from the serving girl. The new woman unsheathed a knife and Aramis’ arm flew to touch d’Artagnan’s chest as he tried to rise. The Spaniard shook his head as d’Artagnan fell back to the seat, his body leaning back to watch the show. 

“I wanna see how this plays out,” Aramis said with a dangerous waggle of his brow, a smile carving over his face. 

The woman outright attacked the serving girl, food and drink exploding into the air as they swung at each other. The woman managed to get the girl onto the table, knife at her throat, and hissed at Bonnaire that she’d kill him. He asked her to calm herself, calling her darling and claiming it too early in the morning. A shot rang out from under his table, one of his would-have-been attackers screaming as the charge went through his knee. 

_Hidden weapons_ , d’Artagnan thought ruefully. This is going to be one of those missions. He tripped the next attacker, he and Aramis shooting to their feet as the man toppled to the ground. Porthos slammed the next attacker into a pillar as the woman brandished her knife about in wide arcs as she tried to place the next attack. 

“You stay away too!” the woman screamed at Aramis as he sauntered around her, d’Artagnan shoving their hapless victim off on his way. 

“A moment ago, you wanted to kill him,” Aramis said, an arm waving at Bonnaire as he looked at the woman incredulously. 

“I have the right. You don’t!” 

She moved to stab him only to have her hand caught, her body spun, and then shoved into d’Artagnan’s arms. The young man wrapped his arms around her shoulders as she squirmed and screamed at him to let her go. He finally did when she bit his hand. Porthos was laughing. He glared at Aramis in promise of restitution that would be paid. 

Bonnaire hopped down from the table, thanking the four of them for their help. Athos promptly arrested him with the same cool grace he used to handle all affairs. Porthos unloaded the man of his weapons as Athos told him who he was and why they were there. Bonnaire tried to reason his way out, using business as his excuse only to have Athos shoot it down. 

“What about her?” d’Artagnan asked, inclining his head towards the woman who had bitten him. 

“ _I_ have a name,” she stated as she glared at Bonnaire. “It is Maria Bonnaire!” 

“Gentlemen,” Émile said, “my wife!” 

“That explains a lot,” Aramis said with a rueful smile as Porthos chuckled. 

There was a question about if Émile had any hidden weapons from Porthos, the larger man continuing his search of the man’s body. Bonnaire claimed he never carried concealed weapons right at Porthos found a gun. The two men in black handed Porthos the rounded case Bonnaire had been carrying, offering worry over valuables. Bonnaire consented to come with them then. 

“Oh um!” Bonnaire said, spinning around to face them again. He spoke to Athos who was the closest at the moment of his turn. “Grant me one last favor before we go. A few moments alone with my wife?” 

The young street rat chuckled through is nose. 

“You must think we’re stupid,” d’Artagnan said, looking around to his friends in hopes that he was right. Aramis shrugged at him while Porthos smiled with a grunt and Athos said nothing. 

“Terribly sorry,” the young man said. “Apparently, we are.” 

“I must have your guarantee you won’t try to escape Monsieur,” Athos stated. 

“You have my _word_ on it,” Bonnaire declared. D’Artagnan wasn’t going to hold his breath on _that_ statement. Porthos raised his brows in interest at the declaration in what could only be descried as a silent question of ‘oh really now?’ 

“As a gentleman,” Bonnaire assured. 

D’Artagnan’s stomach continued to sink. 

~*~*~  


Athos was a bit impressed at the couple’s acting skills. They were apparently very much in love with each other to have planned a fight that elaborate to try to shake off their ‘admirers’ as well as place themselves in a position to fake having relations just so Bonnaire could attempt to sneak out a window. 

Too bad Porthos was much better than Émile was. 

Porthos was in charge of the cart while Bonnaire sat next to him. Athos was on horseback, in the rear of their column as Aramis took the lead and d’Art rode between Athos and the cart. 

As they rode, the column changing as they went, it was d’Art’s back Athos found himself gazing at. He’d made it a personal mission of his own to stop looking for similarities between little Charles – he had to use the lad’s first name to differentiate – and d’Art. His heart couldn’t take any further pain and stress over believing he was reunited with a child who was far more than likely dead. Not that it really mattered though; d’Art had wormed his way into Athos’ graces and brought the man new concerns every day. 

After the incident with Vadim, Athos had found himself coming clean to the young man that Porthos had given his name one night. He’d mentioned his own d’Artagnan as well in a strange show of sharing that he’d thought he’d become incapable of having. 

The boy’s expression that night, however, haunted him. How could someone that young look so utterly heartbroken by being told they reminded someone of another? Athos had wondered if something in his voice had given his worries over Charles away but he knew that couldn’t be it. He was damned good at keeping his voice rock steady no matter what occasion – though mentioning little Charles _had_ made his heart tie itself into shriveling knots. 

There had been something that had made the boy’s eyes cloud with tears that, as far as Athos could tell, had remained unshed over the last month and a half. Nothing had changed as far as d’Art showing up at the garrison for his usual practice bouts with the three of them. There were moments when Athos would arrive early and find the boy speaking with Tréville on the balcony or with one of the two girls they always saw the boy with outside of the gates. 

The incident he’d witnessed two weeks after Vadim’s death had given him a fright though. Finding the three of his companions huddled in the back of the stables, spreading salve over the youngest’s wrists and re-bandaging heavily damaged skin, had not been what Athos had expected. D’Art’s determination for the other two to not tell him had stung. 

They hadn’t shared a word about it with Athos and he hadn’t been told about the incident by any of them. He kept his knowledge of it secret as well though, the implications had stayed in the forefront of his mind. They’d been on the other side of that wall when it had been blown apart and d’Art had been tied to the barrels? The thought terrified him. He couldn’t stand to lose another friend without knowing how he’d done so. 

It had also been a shock that d’Art had been anywhere near a person like Therron – a man of whom made Athos’ stomach grind into knots at the thought of that damned name. Yet, d’Art had handled the situation with nothing more than a slight frown at the man who’d broken his rules. 

He’d told Tréville that if the boy decided to become a Musketeer, he’ be more than happy to sponsor him. Tréville had only given him a knowing smile. 

“You know, we could probably walk to Paris faster than this,” d’Art muttered to him as they rode side by side. Bonnaire was chattering to Porthos who was showing far more patience than Athos had anticipated. “Ditch that wagon we might make _progress_.” 

“Bonnaire hopes his exotic gifts will soften the king’s mood,” Athos explained, earning a breathy chuckle from the boy on his right. “It costs us nothing to humor him.” 

The wagon ahead went quieter as Bonnaire broached the subject of Porthos’ origins. Athos could just make out Porthos speaking of his mother, moving to Paris after being freed, to the man. That had been a story Athos hadn’t heard until his second year back from home. Porthos was being very gentle with this man for bringing up slaves in his presence considering Bonnaire had yet to go flying off the wagon. Porthos had explained once that he’d lived on his own since he was five and that had been due to Aramis getting him drunk and coaxing him to explain why he’d hurled a man out of a window for calling him a name Athos would rather not repeat. 

“We’re being followed!” Aramis yelled as he cantered up from behind them. “Two men dressed in black. About a mile behind.” 

“The men from the inn?” Athos asked. Aramis gave an affirmative. “What are they waiting for?” 

Their modest column pulled to a halt before a building that looked to have stables and multiple housings within it under Athos’ command to remain off the road to lose the men from before. It didn’t take long for him to wish he hadn’t decided to stop as Aramis stiffened at the sound of rustling metal. Porthos remained near the wagon and Bonnaire as Athos waited for Aramis to give a signal. Their swords were out in a flash, guns ready, when Aramis bellowed for whoever was there to come out. 

“That was very formal,” Athos jabbed. 

“I like to be polite,” Aramis said with a soft smile as a man with an axe came sneaking around from behind him. 

“Aramis!” d’Art yelled, pointing at the attacker. Athos simply shot the man dead without thinking. No one snuck up on his men. 

“Ambush!” 

And then they were surrounded, the clang of metal on metal ringing through the air as they dealt with the onslaught. Athos managed to bellow at Porthos to stay with Bonnaire as they fought, his eyes drifting to where d’Art was fighting. 

The boy slipped from sword to a wooden staff with a simple twist of his body, the staff wrenched from its original owner’s hands and used against their attackers. He spotted Aramis fighting with his usual grace though the man hissed as a chain slammed against his back. Aramis would bruise but he’d live. A few men slipped past them, racing for Bonnaire but Porthos dispatched them with ease. 

Athos let himself focus on his own battles, his blade snaking out at his attackers while his free hand slammed them away with biting force. The men were lucky he wore his signet ring backwards so the sigil would press against my palm and was hidden from anyone who didn’t need to know who he really was. Not everyone in the regiment was like him after all. 

It took Aramis screaming Porthos’ name to gain his attentions again, his stomach falling at the sight on one of his men on the ground and unmoving. Aramis had wrapped the chain around a man’s throat, dragging the man from Porthos’ prone body with a roar. 

“That’s enough!” a man yelled from the stable door. The men around them stilled and Athos glared at the newcomer. He was tired of these surprises. 

“I have no argument with you! Only with him!” 

“Gentlemen! Allow me to introduce my business partner!” Bonnaire called. “Paul Moneir.” 

_If this is another act I swear I will shoot Émile Bonnaire myself_ , Athos thought. The King’s Business be hanged! 

“On the face of it, I’d say your _partnership_ isn’t going well!” Aramis yelled from where he was kneeling by Porthos, his belt tied around the man’s shoulder. 

The newcomer went on to explain his involvement with Émile which was mostly funding for eight years only to have no cargo on Émile’s ship. Athos gave his condolences on the loss but explained that the King had asked for Bonnaire’s presence. The argument ended when Aramis pointed his gun and ordered Paul to have his men back off. 

In private, Athos assured the man he’d inform the Cardinal of his claims against Bonnaire. D’Art stood behind Bonnaire as the two men spoke, both listening as Athos warned Paul against scouts. 

“What scouts?” 

“Two men in black. They’ve been on our tails since Le Harve.” 

“Not mine,” the man admitted, his tone sincere. “I’m not the only one with a score to settle with Émile Bonnaire.” 

They regrouped around Aramis and Porthos, the latter trying to keep his breathing normal as Aramis fixed his arm still. Aramis explained in a hushed tone as he pulled booze from the wagon that the wound needed needlework, soon. Something settled in the pit of Athos’ stomach. He knew how far they were from Paris but he didn’t want to stop…there. 

“Will he make it to Paris?” Athos asked in a calm tone that surprised him. 

Porthos screamed as Aramis settled a cloth against the gaping wound and the man’s pauldron. 

“He won’t make it to the next village unless I get a chance to sew up that wound,” Aramis said as he bustled about. 

“We should leave the road and look for shelter,” d’Art stated, his eyes darting towards his fallen friend. Athos didn’t have time to feel jealous over the three’s relationship at that moment. 

“Not here,” he insisted. “We’ll ride on for a few miles and _then_ find somewhere.” 

“Porthos isn’t fit to ride,” Aramis said breathlessly. 

“Get him on the cart,” Athos commanded d’Art, his hand smacking against the boy’s arm as he spoke. 

“Didn’t you hear what I said?!” Aramis yelled. “If we don’t operate soon, he’ll die.” 

Athos tried to ignore the panicked flash in d’Art’s eyes at Aramis’ statement. 

“We’ll wait ‘til it’s dark,” Athos said, turning away only to be yanked back by Aramis. 

“What’s the _matter_ with you?” Aramis yelled into his face. “Don’t you care about Porthos?” 

“Alright,” he ground out. “I know somewhere. Nearby.” 

“Why didn’t you mention it before?” d’Art asked. Athos didn’t answer him.


	19. Commodities: Part 2

Porthos didn’t remember the ride through the little town of Le Fère, though d’Art assured him it was as pretty and quaint as a town could get. Porthos didn’t buy it though, not with the misty look that crossed the boy’s face as he claimed it was like no other township he knew of. He didn’t remember being dragged into the mansion in which he currently sat, waiting for his friends to return. 

There was a hazy memory, deafened by his own heavy breathing to ignore the pain in his shoulder, of Bonnaire suggesting he’d buy the place and Athos telling him it wasn’t for sale. He remembered asking for something to take the edge off, Athos offering wine, and Bonnaire claiming to have something better. 

There was another hazy memory of d’Art asking Athos how he knew about this place while Porthos had busied himself on the drink from the Colonies. Athos’ hesitating admission to owning the place would have shocked Porthos had his shoulder not been screaming. The chatter overhead about how well Aramis could sew went over his head, though d’Art’s pointed comment on how the tour of Porthos’ scars would bloody damned well wait sat well with Porthos. 

He did remember Athos’ fist connecting with his jaw as he lay on his stomach on a table. 

He’d woken to booze being shoved in his face on his request and his arm tied to his side with long strips of cloth. He’d let Bonnaire chatter away again about a utopia. Bonnaire thought he’d farm tabaco and retire fat and happy but d’Art assured him farming was all hard work. Porthos had wondered at the young man as Bonnaire claimed labor to be cheap and how he’d run the farm. He knew a bit about d’Art’s home, a farming village, but not much else. Surely, d’Art had been too young to help out before he’d ended up in Paris. 

Bonnaire had offered them passage with him to the Colonies, to become rich and famous before Athos came in to ask how he was. When it was decided that he would probably be able to leave the next day, Athos declared they’d leave in the morning. Porthos hadn’t let on that he’d been far more aware of Athos’ earlier conversation with Aramis over where they would stop to treat him than they’d thought. 

The way d’Art had thrown passing glances at him though, told him the boy was certain he’d heard every word. Bonnaire had gone off to claim Athos would probably love spending the night back home, with his memories. Another sneaking glance from d’Art told Porthos that he’d noticed something about those memories that shouldn’t be touched on. 

Trust d’Artagnan to notice a man’s unhappiness before anyone else in the room. 

That morning, he’d woken with a stiff jaw, the ebbing pulse of a punch catching his interest as d’Art shoved his boots on across from him. 

“Did someone punch me?” he’d asked, his eyes sliding up and down d’Art’s lithe form. He could appreciate the way the boy had grown even if he wished that d’Art wouldn’t hide behind the scarf Aramis had given him. 

“Don’t be ridiculous!” the boy chuckled as he settled his foot into his boots before standing. “I’ll go fetch some water.” 

He’d heard Athos and d’Art speaking about vandals and someone called Thomas in another room, the large house echoing everything as if to catch up on all the years spent in silence. A death was mentioned and Porthos heard d’Art give condolences. He hadn’t asked when the boy returned with water. He just drank and let the boy go about his business, strapping his leathers around his waist. 

He and Bonnaire had talked over the man’s next trip, making sure the load would be evenly distributed. Bonnaire called him a ‘self-taught man,’ though he used a fancier term that Porthos couldn’t see himself using, when Porthos asked to see with the intention of teaching himself something new. Bonnaire hid the documents he’d been going over away, claiming his eyes to be tired. 

His wife had shown up then, claiming injury only to aim a gun at d’Art and stealing the man away in a flurry of movement that Porthos couldn’t follow in his current state. He was lucky he could limp through the pain lacing through him. He’d been left in the mansion, waiting for his friends to return. 

He’d limped back inside, teeth grinding in his frustration. He’d glared at the family crest that sat over the mantelpiece, part of him thinking it looked awfully familiar. The paint had faded but Porthos could see the pale echo of blue symbolizing truth and loyalty over the embattled line on the bottom quarter of the crest that sat under a red heraldic lion for strength of a warrior. Two crossed swords slid behind the shield section symbolizing honor and justice. He blamed the booze and the pain for his incapability to not remember as he’d stumbled to the table where Bonnaire’s papers still sat. 

He’d looked at them. That had been his mistake. The men form the inn had been right about not leaving it in the wrong hands. 

The lot of them had returned with Bonnaire limping for a reason that Porthos found himself not caring about as he roared at the man, calling him swine. He managed a punch to the man’s face and managed to slam him back into the table before d’Art and Athos wrestled him away. 

“No!” d’Art yelled. “What are you doing?” 

“I can explain!” Bonnaire cried. 

“I’m going to kill him!” Porthos roared. 

He kicked in a wild arc at the man on the floor, Athos screaming his name before the stiches on his back ripped audibly. He screamed through his teeth at the pain but kept wrestling forward. Pain be damned, he was going to kill the damned slave merchant before him if it killed him. 

Aramis hissed, a fist rising to his mouth. “There goes my needlework.” 

“PORTHOS! Enough!” Athos yelled as he stilled, the pain winning out. “What’s going on?” 

Porthos held a shaking hand up to point at the plans he’d thrown aside, telling them to look at them with a shaking voice that couldn’t rise above a whisper. Aramis picked up the papers, his face paling at the images in his hands. 

“Men. Women. Children,” Porthos ground out, each word punching the air like weapons punching through cloth. “It’s a slave ship.” 

“The drawings make it look far worse than it really is,” Bonnaire tried to reason. Porthos shoved away from Athos to pull another from the pile. One that had drawings of the people stacked so closely together they couldn’t move. 

“I envied him. Boasting how he was going to farm tabaco, how labor is cheap out there,” Porthos growled as d’Art and Athos held him back again. “It isn’t cheap labor is it Bonnaire; it’s stolen labor. Stolen _lives_!” 

“I am not a prejudiced man!” Bonnaire cried. “This is strictly business!” 

“The business of misery and suffering?” 

“It’s our duty to protect him,” Athos said. Porthos shoved him away. 

“Turning a blind eye to his crimes?” Porthos hissed. 

“Slavery is cruel and disgusting,” Athos admitted. “But,” Porthos gripped his collar, “it’s not a crime.” 

“I heard stories about those ships as a child,” Porthos admitted. He’d done more than that really, d’Art’s steady hand on his chest the only reassurance he had that he had told someone in this room what his mother had told him. 

“Hellish stories,” he continued. “Know why they’re shackled? Hm?” 

“To stop them from jumping overboard,” d’Artagnan said, his voice cutting through the room like a hot blade through skin. Aramis looked away from them, his stomach turning his face green as it turned. Porthos, while it hurt him to remember how d’Art had come to learn of his stories, was overjoyed someone else knew. 

“Because…it’s better,” the boy finished. “Better than watching friends, family, children die around you of starvation and sickness.” 

“And hopelessness,” Porthos added as he stared at the floor and his feet. D’Art’s hand remained still on his chest, a comforting weight keeping him grounded. 

He could remember the night he’d admitted all those horrors to the boy, apologizing to him for adding something to fear to his young life. He hadn’t meant to wake in a cold sweat from old imaginings of his mother’s horror stories as a teenager, let alone one so close to eighteen. Yet, he had and the little boy who could still only whisper to others had been there, holding his head to a tiny chest and murmuring to him. 

“You’ll get you justice Porthos,” Aramis stated. “The King will see to that.” 

Aramis was obviously angered over the revelation of who they were dealing with and how it tied to his friend. Porthos could only hope the man wouldn’t fault him for not telling of those stories until now while d’Art knew everything about them. He didn’t think he could deal with a friend leaving him after learning of this…darkness of humans that haunted him. 

He ended up sitting by as Bonnaire dug a hole for his wife who’d been killed shortly after she’d ridden off with him. Porthos had voiced his belief that Émile had a shopping list, which was admitted to. Bonnaire had the gall to claim he offered a better life to the people he was buying. 

“Men were born free,” Porthos growled. “No one has the right to make slaves of them.”

“Yes but the real world isn’t run that way now is it? It’s run on economics and I’m a trader…I deal in commodities.” 

“A _man_ is _not_ a commodity.” 

They buried the woman with a few other snarls thrown at each other before Porthos stormed off. He was overly done with this slave trader and his crocodile tears. He didn’t care if Aramis gave a sweet prayer. He didn’t care how quite d’Art had fallen since speaking – it was expected from the lad to be silent after such a long speech. He didn’t care what Athos was hiding from in that house. He was done. 

~*~*~  


D’Artagnan found Athos standing under a tree not far from the house. His throat throbbed from the silent sobbing that had taken place as they’d gone to fetch Madame Bonnaire from the road. Aramis hadn’t said anything to him about it, his own eyes misted over from emotions that should have been left alone in their caverns within a person’s heart. 

It had been years since anything related to slavery had crossed d’Artagnan’s mind. Twenty-three if he remembered correctly, and here it was, tearing his friend apart all over again. It was ripping his elder brother into pieces and he found he was just as powerless to stop it now as he had been then. He couldn’t even patch the wounds up this time for it had cut into him just as badly. 

“What are you doing?” he asked Athos, wishing to be on the road and get Bonnaire out of their hands as quickly as possible. He wasn’t a Musketeer yet. He knew this and the temptation to make one thing in his brother’s life go as he wished was becoming too powerful. 

“There’s someone I need to see in the village,” Athos said. 

“Let me come with you then,” he offered. Anything to stay away from Émile Bonnaire. “You’ve been…different. Ever since we got here.” 

“Keep an eye on Porthos,” Athos said as he stumbled off, drunken arcs of his arms swinging about as he continued to command. “Don’t leave him alone with Bonnaire.” 

“Where-?” 

“Get on the road! Get Bonnaire to Paris!” 

Swallowing the bile that had risen in his throat over the wrong atmosphere that was seeping from Athos and the fear of what he’d be tempted to do back in the mansion, d’Artagnan returned to his friends. They – Aramis and Porthos – argued Bonnaire into submission on leaving the blasted wagon there, ignoring the man’s wish to bring the king a gift. 

Porthos wished to wait for Athos, Aramis calm in the idea that Athos would catch up when he was ready. D’Artagnan didn’t have the same confidence in the eldest of their group at the moment though and voiced it by agreeing with Porthos. Aramis told him to trust Athos to handle his personal affairs. 

He wanted to. But the last day and a half of Athos hiding in the manor, the painting of a woman whose face was hidden by cuts in the panel, and the revelation of Athos having a brother had his stomach sinking lower than Bonnaire’s stunts had. Also, that crest over the mantel piece had confirmed d’Artagnan’s belief that this truly was the man he’d loved as a brother before his family was killed. 

He knew that crest the moment he’d seen it and things had begun to make sense to him. He remembered the signet ring that his father had told him to never touch without Athos’ permission. The signet ring he knew Athos still wore. He’d stared at the trinket on his neck often enough to have the image on its face engrained on his memory for all time. He knew who Athos was, and even though the man seemed unable to recognize him, he wasn’t going to lose all faith in him. 

The last two days, however, were beginning to make his faith and love shake. 

“Aramis, I’m going back.” 

That had been all he’d said before turning around and kicking his horse off into a canter before Aramis could stop him. He charged the horse through the woods, over the river, and onto the road where they’d killed the Spanish agent. He thundered through the village, people dodging out of his way as he went. 

He skidded the horse to a halt before the mansion when the orange of flames burned at his eyes in the darkness. He took as much time as he dared to dismount and tie the horse off somewhere safe, ripping the scarf from his neck and tossing it over the saddle, before racing up to the house. 

“ATHOS! Athos can you hear me?” 

The fourth time he’d screamed Athos’ name, a rider went screaming away on horseback. He almost followed before he noted the rider wasn’t male and he had yet to hear Athos call out in reply. He rushed into the building, screaming Athos’ name through the haze of smoke and flame. When he found him, the man was lying on the ground of the sun room, coughing and gaging on smoke and reeking of wine. 

“It’s me. It’s d’Artagnan,” he yelled over the roar of the flames. He no longer cared about his name being given to the man. Athos knew it already and Athos was as much a brother to him as ever. He, like Aramis and Porthos, were people he could trust with his name. 

“Get up. Get UP!” he screamed. 

When he received no response, he hauled the man up by his collar, leather biting at his fingers as flames licked at his back. He shook Athos, calling for the man to come to his senses. He was rewarded by Athos’ ring grazing his collarbone as the man flailed to get away from his grip, leaving a burn behind on his olive skin. Aramis was going to kill him if he got that infected. 

“God damn it,” he ground out. He shook the man again. “OLIVIER!” 

Athos’ eyes flared open, an awareness filling them. D’Artagnan screamed at him to rise, relief filling him as Athos shoved himself drunkenly to his feet. He dragged the man to his feet and out of the burning mansion. He planted the man on the cool grass outside the front doors, racing to get his pouch of water. 

“What happened? Who was that woman?” he asked as he wiped the water he’d dumped onto the man’s face away from skin. He was panting, his throat raw from the smoke. Athos looked no better than he felt. 

“Ever since…thought I was imagining it,” Athos blubbered through the wine. 

“ _Who_?” d’Artagnan begged, hands gripping Athos’ coat desperately. 

“My wife,” Athos said through a moan. “She died five years ago…By my orders. She was a murderer so I had her taken from our home and hung from the branch of a tree.” 

D’Artagnan didn’t like the far off look in Athos’ eyes as the man gazed at the flames. It was like he wanted to jump into them. He yanked Athos around to face him. 

“Look at me, _LOOK_ at _me_!” d’Artagnan screamed. “You’re telling me that the ghost of your wife is trying to kill you?” 

“She’s not dead…she survived.” 

“Revenge,” d’Artagnan whispered as Athos bowed his head. 

“It was my duty,” Athos hissed, his hands gripping d’Artagnan’s coat and shaking the young man. “It was _my_ duty to uphold the law! My duty to condemn her, the woman I loved, to death! I clung to the idea that I had no choice…five years learning to live without her.” 

He pulled away from d’Artagnan who could only stare at him with – what d’Artagnan hoped was – an unreadable expression. 

“What do I do now?” Athos whispered beseechingly. 

They sat there in the darkness, the heat of the burning mansion keeping them warm. Athos lay on the grass, crying in silence as d’Artagnan sat next to him. Neither spoke to the other, too wrapped up in their own cares. D’Artagnan wondered over the woman who’d earned such devotion from the man who lay next to him, jealous that she’d been lucky enough to have time with Athos. He was sorry for Athos’ loss, he was, but…Athos probably hadn’t even heard of what happened in Gascony what with his duties and love life going to hell. 

He forced himself to think of Porthos again, his hand trailing to the chain on his neck. Even the memory of Porthos waking in a cold sweat screaming in fear of a boogeyman he’d never have to physically face was an image that comforted him at that moment. As badly as that memory – alone or accompanied with the recent events with Bonnaire – cut into him, it didn’t hurt as badly as Athos’ not knowing who was sitting by his side. 

It was a numbness that spread over d’Artagnan as the night wore on, the mansion burning to ashes before him like his home in Lupiac. Even that memory was comforting right now.


	20. Commodities: Part 3

Aramis was impressed at the gall Bonnaire had to ask for dignity that was ‘common to every man’ before meeting the king. He had the gall to do it in front of Porthos, claiming he had rights, the rights of every man. Though, he had to point out the irony of those words. He was met with a thickly put on line from Bonnaire that the man was out of the slavery business and it was thanks to their inspiration. 

“You’d say just about anything to save your own skin,” Porthos chuckled though the growl from earlier was still underneath his good humor. 

It was probably a good thing that d’Artagnan had rushed off with barely any warning. He wasn’t really bound to the duty of a Musketeer. He was an information runner who spent time around the Musketeers and Aramis had seen what that boy tended to do to people he didn’t like. The lucky ones were ignored. The unlucky ones disappeared with tails between their legs. It was a bit of a wonder the boy was still as free as any bachelor what with the two girls who hung about him but Aramis knew he hadn’t taught the boy all there was to know about wooing yet. 

The three of them rode in silence the rest of the way through Paris after Porthos smacked Bonnaire’s donkey onwards. 

They’d waited outside after giving their reports to the Cardinal, hoping the man would go far enough with his charging of Bonnaire. However, Bonnaire came out with a skip in his step and an announcement that only served to darken Porthos’ moods again. Aramis held his friend’s uninjured shoulder as Bonnaire left on his new venture, funded by the Cardinal himself, as he prayed for a miracle. 

~*~*~  


Constance was cleaning when she got the unexpected guest of Milady de Winter asking for material for a new dress. The woman had called her a maid due to her youth and continued to insinuate that she had an interest in her lodger. 

While she could admit that d’Art was handsome in a devilish way, she’d seen him with his two friends. The blonde was a cheery thing that hung on his arms whenever they were free – and even when they weren’t. The redhead was a spirited thing with sharp eyes that always seemed to know which window Constance was gazing out of. 

Something inside her warned to not mention those girls though as the woman continued to insinuate things about d’Art. Slightly intimate relations? Maternal interest? What was this woman on about? How did she even know how desperate Constance’s husband was for money? 

A chill went through her as the woman left. Yes, it was for the best she hadn’t mentioned d’Art’s friends. Now, if only her heart would slow down at the accusation of taking d’Art as her lover. 

~*~*~  


Athos had been a bit surprised at the glimpse of d’Art’s neck that he received that morning. It was before the boy slipped his scarf back on and Athos had almost questioned what the chain carried and who’d given it to him. Instead, he’d asked about the burn he’d spotted, earning a dark look from the boy. The look got even darker when he asked about the jagged scar he’d noticed. 

Any further questions he’d wanted to ask died on his tongue at that look as if he knew he was being blamed for something he’d done or had failed to do. He didn’t like the turning his stomach that suggested it was something he’d failed to do that had earned him that look. 

They’d ridden in silence to Paris until they spotted the second man in all black. Athos offered to go and speak with the man, quickly asking d’Art to not mention what had happened. The boy gave his word before riding off in search of a change of clothes. 

He found the man aiming a musket at Bonnaire near the Cardinal’s place of office. He pressed the barrel of his own gun against the man’s neck and asked to talk. He found that Spain wanted Bonnaire for crimes against the treaty pact. The Spanish wanted Bonnaire’s activities in the Colonies to end. However, the Cardinal was apparently supporting the man now. 

It was easy talking his men into going back to Le Harve for the idiot scheme to call in Paul, the business partner, a few other men, and the Spanish spy they’d left alive. The set up was easy. Paul was to bring the men to set up a situation for them to claim protection over the idiot slaver only to have Porthos – rightfully – ask why they were doing so and end up fighting Aramis. Athos had d’Art run Bonnaire off to a ship in the harbor where the spy was waiting to arrest him. 

D’Art returned to a silent bar as Athos handed Paul the key to Bonnaire’s warehouse, asking for them to remain silent over the treasonous acts they’d just committed. They left in amiable company, toasting for Bonnaire to have a long and boring time in his new cell. Athos wished he could right all wrongs were as easily as he left d’Art to take up the rear of their column home. 

He didn’t notice d’Art look over his shoulder at a woman with dark hair and green eyes, her finger lifted to her lips at the boy with a smile. He did notice how the boy was suddenly even quieter than he had been on the way back from La Fère. He tried to ignore it as Porthos called the boy up to join him and Aramis in a solid hug, chaste kisses being bestowed on foreheads between them. 

They fell asleep in an inn near the outskirts of Le Harve, sharing a large room between them. He was sharing with Aramis while Porthos had been allowed the use of the entirety of the other bed. D’Art was in the chair of the room, promising he’d be fine there. It decided to rain at some point that night, the thunder stirring Athos awake as it brought up memories of another storm he’d sat in five years ago. His eyes fluttered open, finding Porthos sitting up in bed. 

The man had his head leaning against d’Art’s shoulder, the hand that wasn’t tied to his side running up and down the boy’s arm and body as if to ensure he was there. The boy had taken off his jacket, his shirt untucked. The scarf was hanging on the chair behind him, the chain on his neck glittering in the sparse light of the distant lightning. D’Art’s hands were on Porthos’ knees, his breathing calm as Porthos spoke to him. 

“Aramis is going to kill you,” Porthos whispered. 

“I know that…Haven’t had time to tell him yet is all,” d’Art admitted in just as soft a voice. 

Porthos lifted his head a bit, his hand tracing over d’Art’s collarbone with fingertip light touches that still pulled a hiss from the boy’s mouth. Porthos’ gave him a wry smirk before he pressed his lips to the offending wound Athos couldn’t see in the dim. 

“He’ll really kill me if it’s infected Port,” d’Art hissed, his fingers clenching in Porthos’ trousers. 

“Gonna tell us how you got this one?” 

“…No.” 

Porthos’ head jerked up, eyes blazing as his hand cupped the boy’s face in a gentle hold. 

“Why not?” 

“…Made a promise.” 

Porthos sighed, his hand falling to lie against the boy’s chest as his head pressed against d’Art’s shoulder again. 

“Don’t be like Athos,” Porthos whispered. “I can only handle one of him and…I can’t lose another friend to that…distancing.” 

“Port…‘Thos won’t be as bad an influence as ‘Mis,” d’Art whispered as he cupped Porthos’ face in his hands. He gave a small smile. “Don’t worry about me.” 

“But…” 

“I keep secrets to stay safe,” he insisted. “Just like you taught me.” He pressed his lips to Porthos’ brow, his nose burying itself in the dark curls on Porthos’ head. “Trust me,” he whispered. “Please.” 

“I do,” Porthos whispered as he pressed a kiss to d’Art’s cheek. “I promise you that d’Artagnan. But I still want to know what burned you.” 

“Promise is a promise,” d’Art whispered with a smile. “You should be sleeping.” 

“Help me?” 

“You know I kick in my sleep.” 

“I’m told I snore.” 

“By me. And you do.” 

“Please d’Art?” 

The boy smiled as he pushed Porthos down in a gentle manner. He crawled over the bed, curling up against Porthos’ body as he pulled the covers over their bodies. The room lapsed into silence again as d’Art fell asleep in Porthos’ arms, his head pressing into the crook under Porthos’ chin as Porthos held him close with his uninjured hand splaying over half of the boy’s lean back. 

Athos forced his hand to release the mattress under him as he stared at them. He wanted to throttle Porthos for being so unguardedly intimate with the young man. He tried to reason it was normal for people who’d grown up with each other as the only family available on the streets but it chewed at him as he watched the two sleep so closely. It was like Porthos was touching something he couldn’t, no matter how much he wanted to, and he wasn’t sure why he wanted to hold d’Art close like he had Charles and Thomas. 

A hand on his shoulder startled out of his dark thoughts, his body twisting violently to face Aramis. The Spaniard smiled wearily at him, like he’d expected such an occurrence to happen sooner or later. 

“They do that,” Aramis whispered with a sideways shrug. “They can’t see each other as anything besides family and, like all families should, they hold each other together when times are rough…d’Art’s good at patching people back together with words.” 

“How can you sound so sure?” Athos whispered, his mind registering something in Aramis’ tone that made his stomach twist again. 

“Porthos wasn’t the one who knocked sense into me after Savoy,” Aramis admitted. “And to be honest, the last two years have been rough without him to talk to.” 

“Talk to?” 

“I’ve taught him shooting. Porthos taught him grappling. We kept him in practice on occasion over the years…” Aramis said with a misty look in his eyes. “But, we started sharing pains and fears and ended up doing that more often than not.” 

“Why not the last two years?” 

Aramis frowned. “He wasn’t in Paris…Radha and Charlotte didn’t know where he was and…Porthos can’t talk to anyone else who could have known…” He gave a heavy sigh. “But, he wasn’t anywhere dangerous considering how he returned.” 

The memory of d’Art charging up to the two men Athos saw as his new brothers before he called Athos a thief came unbidden. He remembered the unhealthy look on the boy’s face when he’d really looked at him, the way the boy’s ribs had been bruised earlier that day but he hadn’t learned of that until after he’d been saved. He remembered the way d’Art had gone about worming his way into Athos’ good graces afterwards, his smile warming like the sun. 

Further memories of Therron and how Aramis had asked about how d’Art’s favors were held even when he wasn’t seen. Aramis’ blunt explanation however, made the twist in his stomach turn inside-out. It wasn’t just the lack of a jovial tone that set him off either. 

“Right,” Athos murmured as he turned to face Porthos and d’Art again. “The burn’s from my ring…It got heated because I was being a drunk idiot…” 

“I see he’s doing the same thing for you as he did for us,” Aramis whispered, his tone betraying how he felt about Athos’ confession. “Get some sleep. We’ll need it for the ride home tomorrow morning.”


	21. Commodities: Part 4

Returning to Paris had been uneventful to say the least. D’Art had remained quiet throughout the ride when he wasn’t whispering to Porthos. The young man had found himself practically out of his mind as he ran through the last journey. 

Two years away from Paris had left him out of the loops he’d set up within the town. His connection with Radha and Charlotte was a saving grace with their willingness to bring him back into the tangled webs the three of them had made over the years. The girls were loved by him as sisters – though he and Radha may have been more than that a few times. No one in Paris remained driven snow pure when they hit a specific age and with Aramis as an elder brother figure, it should have been expected d’Art would have let something go sooner or later. Also, life in the Court was a questionable affair on the best of days. 

Something else nipped at the edges of his mind though. That something – someone if he was being honest with himself – only made things harder as they continued home. His mind was whirling from dealing with Bonnaire, digging up old memories of Porthos screaming himself awake as the sun set. As much as he had enjoyed being one of the few people who knew about those sleepless nights, those very nights once kept him up with worry over how Porthos would do away from those he trusted. That worry was the reason he had started following Porthos around Paris. 

If he was to continue being honest with himself, that worry was from fearing he’d never see another person he loved like a brother. Oliver d’Athos was the first brother he’d ever had and d’Art missed him past all things. The loss of his home hurt little when the thought of Athos arriving the coming spring only to find the farm gone and everyone dead. 

Having Porthos as another brother had eased the pain of loss a bit though it brought new stripes of it. Porthos’ fears of slavers, fears for his friends, and over protective qualities around those he cared for had led d’Art to worry Porthos would die young from something stupid. Porthos’ joining the Musketeers had been a revelation to d’Art. The young man had known it would be a dangerous job but it would also come with something Porthos longed for; a family that didn’t need to cheat its way through living. 

Aramis was a good addition to their ragtag family, bringing his own baggage of pain and sorrow that d’Art had yet to hold to his chest as dearly as he held Porthos’ secrets as well as Athos’. He knew a few things about Aramis. Only the things that had been near enough to the surface that Aramis had to purge them from his stomach to find strength again. 

Their time in the little alcove together had been the only safe place left for him at one point. The streets were dangerous as a person without a ‘true’ family. Even with a makeshift one, it was dangerous. Having brothers – of any sort – in a military regiment was a protective measure to take but d’Art was no stranger to the dangers of weaponry held in the wrong hands. Learning to handle weapons with his brothers’ advisements was something he had missed while he’d been gone from Paris. Aramis had dragged him away from the group – and his thoughts – as soon as they’d arrived at the garrison, calling for Athos and Porthos to speak with Tréville while he tended to d’Art’s burn. 

D’Art didn’t pay much attention to the exchange, his mind still settled on what had happened between him and Athos lately. Between the revelation of who d’Art reminded Athos of and the recent finding that Athos had a wife who was supposed to be dead, d’Art had to wonder about just what he’d managed to miss. While it had been years since he’d seen Athos in person, he hadn’t forgotten what the man had looked like. A few things had changed, like that cut on Athos’ lip and Athos’ lost smile, but many things had remained the same. He was still loyal to a fault for those he loved and was as unwilling to open up about his life as ever. 

But it stung that d’Art wasn’t remembered as anything past what he looked like when he was a child. For d’Art, it was like his entire existence had disappeared to Athos. He’d put it to words with Charlotte and Radha, thinking if he got it off his chest in that safe haven, things would get easier. They hadn’t though. In fact, after the fire and learning about Athos’ wife, d’Art had found himself holding a secret he wanted no part in because he knew what had happened five years ago. 

He’d caught up with Porthos and Aramis as well, after all. 

Athos had returned to the regiment changed, according to Porthos. There was an edge to his very being, according to Aramis. They had known Athos while he’d been in the Regiment while d’Art had been learning to protect himself and others. They would have known if a change had occurred in Athos when he’d returned to their sides. 

Yet, they only knew of a woman who died. That was all Athos had shared with them. He hadn’t spoken of a boy in Gascony disappearing from a farm that was now nothing but ash and debris. Aramis knew there was someone special in Gascony but also knew Athos hadn’t spoken of Gascony since his return. Porthos remembered hearsay on it when he’d joined up but he, like Aramis, had no name. Tréville was in the same boat as Aramis and Porthos. 

D’Art hissed as Aramis laid some rather foul smelling salve onto the healing burn on d’Art’s upper chest. It wasn’t the sting of the salve that caused the reaction though. It was something that d’Art hadn’t realized was gnawing at him in silence until just then. 

“Sorry d’Art,” Aramis said with a soft smile that hinted at bashfulness that the Spaniard only just pulled off. “I tried to warn you it’d sting.” 

Aramis wiped a thumb over d’Art’s wet cheek, the hand cupping the young man’s face. D’Art registered the soft brush of callouses on his face, the concerned expression on Aramis’ face, but he couldn’t register when he’d started crying. 

“d’Art?” Aramis asked when his silence stretched a little too long. “What is it? What hurts?” 

“It stung,” he mumbled. 

“Right,” Aramis said, his expression giving away his lack of belief in the statement. “Sorry.” 

“There,” Aramis said with a smile. “You’re patched up.” He pulled d’Art’s chain and trinket up from the bench where they’d placed it to let Aramis have a clean shot at the injury. “And that pretty thing is back where it belongs.” 

Aramis held the trinket in his palm for a moment, eyes fixed on the sigil on the casing. D’Art waited as he stared at the sigil, a hand swiping the tears edging around his eyes. 

“I’ve seen this sigil,” Aramis murmured as he tucked the trinket under d’Art’s shirt. 

“It’s Athos’ family crest,” d’Art murmured. Aramis stared at him. 

“How’d you get this?” d’Art smiled at his friend. 

“From Athos.” 

“W-when?!” Aramis stammered. 

“I was three,” d’Art admitted. 

“…Athos hasn’t recognized you,” Aramis murmured as he began to piece the last few months together. D’Art shook his head. Aramis sighed, a hand coming through is dark hair. 

“Alright then,” he sighed as he wrapped d’Art up in his arms. “I’m sorry.” 

The boy nodded against Aramis’ chest, his movements causing the leathers to squeak. He wished so badly to tell Aramis about what Athos was hiding but his promise was holding him back. He wanted to say so much of what happened while he’d been gone, where the scar on his neck from, to show the sigil on his trinket. 

But he didn’t. All he could do was weep at the knowledge that Athos did not remember him the way he remembered Athos while he was alone. 

~*~*~  


Athos had decided to treat Porthos to a drink that night. It was his way of apologizing about how he’d handled the situation with Bonnaire. He hadn’t handled Porthos’ injury well thanks to his inability to face his fear of his own home. He also wanted a bit of time alone with someone who knew about d’Art’s history. Athos couldn’t get himself to go up to d’Art personally after being under that intense stare. While Porthos drank, Athos began asking him about d’Art’s history. 

“Why so interested?” Porthos asked around his mug. 

“He’s nearly been killed because he’s helped us,” Athos stated. “And there was that incident with Therron only a few weeks ago. It’s only right of me to ask about him isn’t it?” 

“Well, if you’re going to worry over this like that,” Porthos chuckled. “He’s got a history much like mine. It’s just…cleaner.” 

“How so?” 

“I’m not going to incriminate myself to a friend,” Porthos laughed before he took a long swig from his mug. “Like most kids, d’Art started up on keeping his ears to the ground and picking up any and all information he can to survive.” 

“He’s obviously stayed with it,” Athos murmured as he sipped at his wine. 

“He’s one of the best I’ve seen,” Porthos chuckled. “The kids go in groups. Safety concerns and all that.” 

“Radha and Charlotte?” 

“Yes. Radha’s rather good at getting evidence while Charlotte can distract,” Porthos explained. “Though…well, you’ve seen those girls.” 

“They’re both distracting,” Athos admitted. 

“d’Art can double as the brawn when it’s needed but that’s a rare thing,” Porthos said, his hand waving about as he tried to assure Athos that d’Art was rarely in danger. Athos was beginning to wonder how transparent his affections were getting to be. He wasn’t making himself a difficult target on his liking of young d’Art apparently. The boy was impressive, though a bit raw about the edges. 

“d’Art’s got a good head on his shoulders, as you’ve seen, and he’s good at keeping an eye out for those he cares for,” Porthos stated. “Well, I’m sure you’ve seen that yourself, considering the soot you two had your clothes.” 

Athos choked on his wine at the statement. He’d missed the possible evidence he and d’Art had brought along from his burned down manor. Yet, here was Porthos noticing it and laughing it off because he knew Athos had probably been drunk. He didn’t ask about where the soot had come from though there was a glint in Porthos’ eyes as the mention of soot that Athos had a feeling was a remembrance of the burn on d’Art’s skin. 

“Look,” Porthos whispered. “I can’t tell you everything you want to know but what I can, I will.” 

“Has he lived his entire life in Paris?” Athos asked. 

“No,” Porthos said with a shake of his head. “I’ve known him since he was six.” 

Athos raised a brow in interest. “Do you know where he’s from before?” 

“Not a clue.” 

“So…he could be from Gascony for all you know?” 

“For all I know, he’s from the Colonies,” Porthos said. “Though, really Athos, why are you so interested?” 

“Something d’Art said…Never mind. It’s nothing.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yes.”


	22. The Good Soldier: Part 1

The little tavern was buzzing with noise despite the early hour, and d’Art had his head ducked and his shoulders raised to his ears. Crowds weren’t his favorite things while outside the Court. At least in the Court, he knew who he was rubbing elbows with. Outside, he could only guess what some people did in their spare time. Therron had been a clear example. Bonnaire was another. 

Radha and Charlotte were waiting for him at their little table, food and drink gathered before them. Charlotte was rolling her food around with her fork while Radha just dug into the food before her with a wild abandon. They’d been doing well lately if the spread was anything to go by. His time helping Tréville had probably been a large contribution to their meals as of late though. 

He hadn’t been able to speak with them directly due to his helping Constance out around the place since some woman had scared her. The two of them had kept the incident from her husband but there had been an uneasy dance they’d fallen into to avoid the subject. 

“I see that you two have had quite a haul,” d’Art stated as he sank into a seat next to Radha. 

“Oh we’re being well paid for our information,” Radha admitted around the meat in her mouth. “The thing is, I wasn’t expecting such a haul.” 

“What’d you two do?” 

“Oh, just ensured a shipment of grain went through,” Charlotte murmured. “There weren’t any casualties it’s just…” 

“Crowds,” d’Art sighed. “I guess the lot of us are all cursed to dislike them.” 

“I like them just fine,” Radha muttered as she swiped a hand at her mouth. “When I need to have a crowd to disappear in, that is.” 

“They have their uses,” d’Art admitted as he dug into his own meal. 

“How’s that Landlady of yours? Still scared of the shadows?” Radha asked. 

“No,” d’Art said. “She’s put it behind her. Plus, Tréville is keeping me rather busy as a new recruit along with having me run rumors down for him.” 

“How’s that going? Please tell me he’s paying you for your services,” Radha muttered. 

“He pays well enough,” d’Art promised. “Besides, it gives me an excuse to talk to you two on occasion.” 

The girls snickered at him around their food. It wasn’t a secret between the lot of them that d’Art was running himself ragged between helping Constance, helping the three Inseparable Musketeers he’d befriended, and Tréville’s little errands. The Musketeer captain had a tendency to ask d’Art to ensure certain information was correct after it had come in. 

Also, Radha had it on her own good authority that something had happened while the four of them had dealt with a man called Bonnaire. From what she’d heard, Bonnaire wasn’t likely to be heard from again and that a certain Count had returned to his home only to have it burn down a day later. She wondered about the accuracy of the last bit until she’d spotted the healing burn on d’Art’s chest that was currently a pink scar against his olive skin. She’d decided to let it be; trusting he’d tell her when he was ready. 

“What’s new, then?” Charlotte asked. 

“There’s going to be a visit from the Duke of Savoy soon,” d’Art said. “I’ll be a bit…busy with the festivities.” 

“That would explain the crowds,” Charlotte murmured. 

“Savoy….Savoy….I feel like there’s something about that place that’s important that I’m missing,” Radha mumbled around the bread she’d shoved into her mouth. 

“I feel the same Radha,” d’Art whispered as he gulped down some ale. “I feel the same.”


	23. The Good Soldier: Part 2

The heat was unbearable. The waiting wasn’t helping matters either. Anyone who knew Porthos, knew he hated being bored. Aramis knew, from experience, that Porthos’ mutterings on how he loved parades and how the large man was thinking of fainting just for something to do were just something to keep himself from being bored. He didn’t really appreciate Athos’ forgetfulness; asking what was wrong. Porthos had whispered that he was thinking of Savoy and Aramis kept to himself as d’Art asked about it. 

He couldn’t blame d’Art for the question. Out of all the things he’d shared with the boy, he hadn’t shared that particular tale. Not in detail. He’d explained he’d lost friends and left it hanging in the air like dirty laundry. D’Art had never pressed him for information though and so the facts were left drifting about Aramis’ head like the flies buzzing about them in the heat. 

Since he’d heard that the Duke of Savoy was coming to France – treaty or no – he’d been uneasy with his knowledge of the affairs of state concerning this particular issue. Savoy wasn’t a large envoy of land. Well, not by the standards of a country, at least. It was a strategic ally to have though what with the way Spain seemed to hover about on the edge of attack. Savoy wanted its independence and France was willing to give Savoy that. This meeting was important. Aramis knew this but it still hurt him deeply when he heard the very name ‘Savoy’. It came with too many memories and few of them were good. 

His father had wanted him to join the ranks of the church but he’d ended up in France with a sword and pistol on his hips. He didn’t miss his father’s hovering over him to join the priesthood though the irony of how much he appreciated a rosary around his throat wasn’t lost on him. He said his prayers at night still, asking for God to watch over him as he slept, asking for peace to be blessed upon his weary mind, and asking for the protection of his friends. 

The clatter of an approaching carriage caught his attentions despite his whirling thoughts. Then again, whenever he found himself thinking of blood, crows, and Marsac’s leaving, he found his thoughts tended to prefer other things to worry over. Duke Victor of Savoy complained about the roads while the King’s sister greeted him with a kiss to the hand and kind words. The Duke seemed unwilling to give any sort of kindness to anyone though, calling Richelieu an unhealthy looking corpse. 

Things began to liven up a bit when a shot rang out, one of the stewards falling to his death. In an instant, d’Art was pointing to where the shot had come from and Aramis was racing after him into the gardens, Athos close behind. While Aramis had known d’Art to be capable of launching over walls taller than the bushes, he wasn’t entirely surprised when the boy’s early leap made him trip slightly. He would have applauded the boy for rolling out of the tumble with the grace of cat stalking prey had he not been rather preoccupied himself. 

It didn’t take long for them to split up, Porthos darting into the gardens as d’Art disappeared down one path and Athos another. Aramis found himself standing before a rope that dangled from a roof, shattered tiles on the ground, crunching under his boots. He stepped past the pillars, his hand falling to his sword as he looked down the long hall before him. His heart leapt into his chest as a dagger was pressed to his throat and his body was pulled against another. 

“Hello old friend,” a graveled voice said. “Don’t make me kill you.” 

He knew that voice. He knew this touch. It baffled him though, his mind reeling that he was dreaming it all. 

“Marsac,” he said, a growl in his own voice. 

The man lowered the scarf hiding his face, proving the guess correct. Aramis, still in a bit of denial, slammed his fist into the man’s face before twirling him around and kicking him in the stomach, tossing him to the floor once he was done. He pointed the man’s knife accusingly at him as he stood over the prone body. 

“First a deserter and now an assassin?” 

“You don’t understand,” Marsac said, his hands up in supplication. “It was the Duke of Savoy that led the attack and killed our friends that day.” 

Aramis backed away, the news like a punch to the gut as he tossed away the dagger. He turned, trying to make up his mind about what he should do. His body acted logically, yanking his pistol free to point it at his friend. 

“Put your weapon on the ground,” he growled, surprised by the hostility in his voice. 

“We were friends, Aramis,” Marsac pleaded. 

“ _Now_ ,” Aramis snarled. 

He watched as Marsac unsheathed his sword, tossing it aside before he leaned back again to look up at Aramis. The Spaniard tried to ignore the twist in his belly as he recognized the spiraling pommel that graced the sword. It was the Musketeer sword Marsac had gotten in his training. Aramis’ heart twisted as he kicked the sword away, his eyes searching for one of his new friends. 

“Aramis, please, listen to me,” Marsac was saying. 

In an instant, Aramis was hauling the man to his feet and slamming him against a pillar. Athos and Porthos passed through the gardens, not seeing Aramis as they went. Marsac thanked him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He punched the man in return, his anger over the situation Marsac had put him in boiling over again. He threw Marsac to the ground again. 

“That’s for leaving me alone in the forest, with twenty dead Musketeers,” he snarled, not admitting that he was far more annoyed at the current position he was in. 

Hiding from his friends because Marsac had returned wasn’t something he’d expected to be doing. He didn’t appreciate it either. He didn’t like hiding things from Porthos and Athos and he especially hated hiding things from d’Art. The young man had a talent for finding things out, especially when people didn’t want him to, but Aramis knew d’Art expected more from friends. Aramis also knew the consequences of not living up to those high expectations. He wasn’t sure what Athos had done – though he’d known the man to say things he didn’t mean while too drunk – but d’Art had seemed to be avoiding the man until a few days ago – possibly because of whatever it was that had happened while Aramis had been away with Bonnaire and Porthos. Aramis did not wish to have the boy give him a cold shoulder any more than he wished to hand Marsac over for high treason. 

“Have you never asked yourself what really happened that night?” Marsac asked after the two of them had struggled to their feet again, anger dissipating into something else. “All these years, we thought it was the Spanish that butchered our friends. It was the Duke.” 

Aramis was rubbing his hand through is hair as he paced, listening to Marsac as he gripped his hat in his other hand. He pushed Marsac against the pillar again, asking how he could be sure of the treasonous words spouting from his mouth. He put it more tactfully but he knew what he was really asking. 

“They were all masked,” Aramis pointed out. 

“I’ve made it my life’s work to learn the truth Aramis,” Marsac said. 

Aramis turned away from him, the click of a pistol’s hammer being pulled back alerting him that they weren’t alone. D’Art stood before them, his pistol aimed for Marsac as he gave Aramis a questioning look. Aramis found his eyes wandering to the scarf on the boy’s neck, still flattered the boy still wore it. Yet, even as proud as Aramis was of the boy’s form, the question d’Art gave him cut at him. 

“Care to tell me what’s going on?” d’Art asked, his brown eyes fixed on Marsac as he stepped towards Aramis’ side. 

“Marsac’s an old friend,” Aramis explained, a hand up as he signaled Marsac to not move. He stepped toward d’Art as he spoke, trying to keep his voice calm. 

“An old friend,” d’Art muttered as he continued to glare that the scene he’d walked in on. “One that just tried to kill the Duke of Savoy.” 

“Hear him out? He was one of our best soldiers once.” 

A look of utter amazement crossed d’Art’s face at the statement. Aramis frowned. 

“I said ‘once’ didn’t I?” Aramis asked as he stepped back to Marsac. 

“We were _brothers_ once,” he pleaded. “For the sake of our old friendship, let me prove what I know.” 

Aramis looked over his shoulder to d’Art before striding off to the side. The young information thief followed him with an uneasy glance at Marsac. Once they were aside, Aramis asked the young man to not say anything about what he’d walked in on. 

“Have you gone _mad_?” d’Art asked him. 

“Probably,” he sighed. “I owe him my life, d’Art, so please.” 

The young man stared at him, brow furrowed with suspicions that Aramis couldn’t have talked him into shaking off if he tried. D’Art sent a look towards Marsac before sighing and holding up a finger to Aramis’ face. 

“If this gets me hanged,” he threatened, “I’m going to take it very personally.” 

Aramis placed a hand over his heart, patting d’Art on the shoulder as he began to consider where he could hide his friend.


	24. The Good Soldier: Part 3

It hadn’t taken Aramis and d’Art very long to smuggle Marsac to Constance’s home and d’Art was beginning to wish the poor woman had never met him. Aramis’ lie that Marsac was a cabinet maker still didn’t sit well with d’Art but it was probably better to not tell Constance she was hiding a man who’d deserted his regiment and just that morning had taken a shot at a Duke. 

He tried to not let his reasoning be clouded by Constance giving Marsac the room he was renting from her be yet another reason he disliked the man. Marsac’s ‘admiring from a distance’ hadn’t been welcomed either. D’Art had warned the man off but he doubted someone who’d been living on the run would listen to him. Not without seeing his neck first. 

He’d left Aramis to tying Marsac’s wrists as the two spoke to each other in the privacy of his room. Being what he was though, left him tempted to listen in. Since Aramis was a friend, he decided it best to ask outright rather than eavesdrop. 

“What happened in Savoy?” he asked as they exited the house. 

“A training exercise near the French border,” Aramis explained after a moment of hesitancy. “We had not reason to be on our guard though so we weren’t. We were attacked in the night, most of our men killed as they slept.” 

“You and Marsac fought together that night then?” 

“Yes…we knew we’d die but we did so anyway, side by side.” 

“How did you survive?” 

“I was wounded and Marsac dragged me to safety before he too hid in the trees and watched the massacre. The next morning, I woke to find him sitting amongst the bodies weeping and claiming he’d wished he’d died with our friends.” 

D’Art watched the Spaniard as Aramis dribbled water onto the back of his neck from the well’s bucket. He waited as the man sorted his next words out. 

“He tore off his uniform and rode away,” Aramis continued. “I should have stopped him; I tried to stop him but…he left. I let him ruin his life after saving mine and I can’t tell him that, to my eyes, he’s not the coward he thinks he is.” 

The young man remained quiet, lost in thought. The attack had happened twenty years ago when he’d been ten. Now that he had a clearer picture of what had been happening when he’d found Aramis vomiting in an alley all those years ago, he couldn’t blame the man for trying to protect a friend. He couldn’t agree that Marsac was deserving of the kindness that Aramis was willing to give the man. 

His reservations only got worse as Tréville bellowed at them all for losing the assassin. He didn’t like lying to the Captain of the Musketeers about not seeing Marsac, claiming he’d slipped. It wasn’t a total lie considering he hadn’t cleared the bushes as well as he could have but he had seen Marsac despite the rather pathetic leap. 

And Athos’ unsubtle glance was enough to twist his stomach again. He hadn’t liked avoiding Athos since the Bonnaire incident but he’d had to. He knew he’d called the elder man by his first name and Athos wasn’t likely to have forgotten it – even if the man hadn’t brought it up. He was avoiding the fallout was all he was doing; he knew this. Aramis’ finally seeing the sigil on the trinket and understanding what was actually happening had taken some weight off his chest but d’Art was still terrified of what Athos would say when things were put together. 

He could take Tréville’s jab at him being ‘little’ and not getting a nasty bruise from the ‘wet grass’ he’d claimed to slip on but a stare from Athos…That he couldn’t endure. 

He and Aramis couldn’t make it out of the garrison before Porthos and Athos called them out on hiding something. Aramis tried to pass it off but Athos glanced at d’Art. Porthos’ gazed at both d’Art and Aramis with a look that spoke volumes. He, like Athos, knew they were hiding something and while he wasn’t pleased about it, he wasn’t going to judge until he knew the whole story. 

“What is it?” Athos asked as Aramis placed his hat back on his head. 

“If you don’t tell them, I will,” d’Art stated. 

“Tell us what?” Porthos asked. 

The next thing d’Art knew, he was back at Constance’s being yelled at by the lady of the house herself about what they’d done. Athos was sitting in a chair with his arms crossed and blue eyes blazing while Aramis leaned against a cabinet behind Marsac’s seated form. Porthos was standing before the hearth while d’Art stood next to Constance at the opposite end of the table from Athos. She hissed her anger at him and Aramis came to his defense though it did no good. 

He was to pack his things while Marsac got to stay. 

“Well that hardly seems fair,” d’Art muttered as she stormed out the door. 

“She’ll forgive you,” Aramis assured him. “Just give her time.” 

D’Art glared at him knowing there was a promise of pain in his eyes when Aramis ducked his head. Athos went on to ask if they’d lost their minds only to end with himself and Marsac knocking over chairs when their egos were trodden on. Aramis, being ever the diplomat, calmed them and asked for Athos to hear Marsac out. 

Marsac dragged them to a building where he’d tied up a man he’d found in a bar, bragging about killing Musketeers. D’Art instantly disliked the man’s tactics as his introduction to the man was followed with a barrage of punches and yelling. 

“Easy,” he sang as he tried to keep a relaxed posture. “He can’t talk if he’s out cold.” 

The man being held spoke of the Duke of Savoy hearing that he was to be attacked by France and had sent men out on a Good Friday to slaughter the Musketeers camped on the border. The man was stupid enough to let smugness slink into his voice as he recalled the men he’d helped kill had been asleep when he’d crept into the tents. 

Marsac was an explosive bastard when it came to anything belittling the men he’d lost too, bellowing the twenty dead had been his friends and throwing another punch. The man continued on about a chancellor, Cluzet, telling of a man who’d given away the camp’s location. He’d overheard the name before he’d left to carry out his orders. 

“What name did you hear?” Aramis asked, his voice strangely calm despite the revelation. They’d been more than ambushed; they’d been betrayed. “Who betrayed the Musketeers?” 

“Tréville?” the man whimpered, unsure of this new questioner. “A Captain Tréville.” 

“Makes sense,” Marsac muttered. “Every man has his price.” 

“You take that _back_!” Porthos snarled before he launched at Marsac. Athos got between them, pushing Porthos back before signaling for them to follow him to the side. 

“The Captain? _Really_?” d’Art asked, sarcasm dripping into his voice as he continued. “He’s the traitor who ordered the murder of his own men? Impossible.” 

“He’s lying,” Porthos agreed though there was panic in his eyes. He was looking to d’Art for assurance, knowing that if anyone had heard anything such as that, it would have been him. D’Art hadn’t heard anything of the sort though, not in the twenty years since the massacre. 

“How else would the Duke have found so easily?” Aramis asked. “Someone had to tell him. Someone who knew the orders we’d been given. It was Tréville, who issued them.” 

Aramis continued to argue that it was possible but d’Art pointed out that Tréville’s name was rather well known around France so it was possible the man could have heard it anywhere. Porthos backed hi claim by saying the man would say anything to save his own skin. Athos agreed with them, saying there had to be another explanation. They fell into a silence that was broken by the gagging of the captive. Once Athos had ripped the deserter from the possible murderer, d’Art turned to the man to check him over. He tossed up his hands in frustration and annoyance as he turned back to his friends. 

“He’s dead.” 

Athos glared down at Marsac’s prone form. 

“This advisor,” d’Art murmured. “Cluzet…that’s it right?” Porthos nodded in a jerking motion. “Anyone think he’s been seen since this…incident?” 

“I’d doubt it,” Porthos muttered. 

“What are you thinking?” Athos asked. 

“I’m going to find him.” 

~*~*~  


Radha had spotted her old friend early that afternoon when he and the Inseparables were walking through town, a new face amongst them. She could hear him saying something about charges being ridiculous as she slipped through the crowded market place in pursuit of the young man. While she had a rumor for him – one he may not like but would likely prefer to know – she was a bit interested in the conversation going on between the five men. 

There was talk of butchered bodies, no need for reminders, and the need for proof before revenge or justice could come about. Porthos, bless the man, pointed out that they were talking about a captain while Aramis claimed that was the reason they owed it to this captain to clear his name. “So, really, we’d be doing him a favor,” d’Art pointed out. “I hope he sees it that way.” 

“This isn’t even your business,” the new man said as he jabbed a finger in d’Art’s general direction as he stared at Aramis. “You’re not even a Musketeer.” 

“Apparently, neither are you,” d’Art chuckled. 

Radha watched in amazement at the newcomer tried to launch himself at d’Art, who stepped toward the attack as Porthos blacked it. 

“Don’t go there,” Porthos snarled before he pushed the man away. “Not if you enjoy breathing.” 

Aramis claimed he needed the truth and Athos stated his loyalty in Tréville before also stating he wouldn’t get in Aramis’ way. He did order that the man, Marsac, stayed under house arrest. Aramis spoke of wounding a leader across his back and that would be their proof. D’Art and Porthos led Marsac away as Athos and Aramis talked of paths leading down dark ways. Radha followed d’Art, not liking the man he was accompanying. 

“Radha,” d’Art smiled when she hopped from behind a stall to fall in step at his side. He tossed an arm around her shoulders and pressed his lips to her temple like a brother. “What news?” 

“The Duke had an unexpected friend,” she whispered before glaring at Marsac who was leering at her. “Am I to assume this is said friend?” 

“Possibly,” d’Art sighed. “Before you ask, yes, we’ve lost our minds.” 

“Shame,” she murmured. “Such a waste of a pretty head. Anything you wish me to attend to besides the children?” 

“Children?” Marsac hissed with a laugh. “Already got a family, boy?” 

“Shut up you,” Porthos snarled. 

“They’re our siblings,” Radha hissed. “And none of your bloody business either.” She turned back to d’Art, ignoring the glare he was sending Marsac. “Anything I can do?” 

“Cluzet,” d’Art stated. “Find anything you can on him.” 

“Happy to,” she said with a smile as Athos stepped on her right side. “Anything I should know?” 

“I would prefer him willing to speak about a massacre at the border of France and Savoy.” 

“This have to do with the men killed there twenty years ago?” she asked. D’Art nodded and she sighed as she crossed herself with a soft prayer leaving her lips. “Shame that. So…if you lot will excuse me, I’ve got a job to do.” 

She ducked away past Athos once d’Art lifted his arm from her shoulders. She spun on her toes and waved goodbye to d’Art before disappearing down an alleyway. She didn’t particularly like the way Marsac continued looking at her as she went but she wasn’t sure she wanted to be anywhere near the fallout when d’Art realized what he had on his hands. 

She could spot a damaged soul a mile off since she’d learned of d’Art’s learning to shoot from the Spaniard of the Inseparables. Years had gone by and she had avoided bringing up the man’s hidden scars to avoid hurting d’Art. Yet, here she was, wondering is this Marsac had snapped or not as well as worrying over when Aramis would do the same. 

~*~*~  


D’Art was shoving clothes into a satchel when Constance walked back to the small room. She was astonished to find him packing. It made no sense to her. It had been fairly clear to her since she’d met him that he had no place to stay – unless of course the redhead she’d seen waving at him in the market was willing to give him a bed – so why he was packing was beyond her. 

“What’re you doing?” she asked. 

“You told me to pack my things,” he replied over her shoulder. She blushed at the memory of her heated words. She hadn’t meant them. 

“I killed a man a man for you, yet, you still don’t trust me,” she muttered, admitting why she’d said the words. She was tired of being out of the loop when it came to the four men she’d found herself thinking of as her brothers. 

“I was trying to protect you,” he said. 

“I don’t want that from you. I want to be treated as an equal,” she complained, knowing her request was possibly falling on deaf, male ears. 

“I made a promise to Aramis,” he muttered. 

“Him over me then?” 

“It’s not that simple,” he muttered. “It’s a question of loyalty.” They shared a look of disappointed unease with each other before he turned back to his things. “I keep my promises, Constance. If you’re willing to let me try again, I swear to never lie to you again.” 

She frowned. “We do need the money,” she mumbled though that wasn’t the sole reason she wanted him present. “Do it again and you’ll be out on your ear.” 

He nodded at her, his eyes on the floor in accepted shame at what he’d done, acknowledging her for being right in his typical silence. She smiled and returned to her chores, ignoring the flush on her cheeks as best as she could.


	25. The Good Soldier: Part 4

“It’s like being protected by _wolves_ ,” the Duke hissed.

Athos and Porthos stood side by side in the ballroom where Tréville and the King were trying to convince the Duke to let them be his protection. It took a lot of energy for Athos to not roll his eyes at the man who held a station three levels of royalty higher than himself. The king however had eight above Athos’ title and it was also the King’s country in which the Duke had been threatened.

The Duke and the Cardinal argued over the reason for the Duke’s visit and how an assassin should be seen as a minor detail. The Duke, not one to give up easily, ordered he fight a duel with Athos – flippantly pointing at the Count in hiding as he did so – saying he’d discuss the treaty if Athos won while also threatening to leave if Athos was the looser.

Athos hadn’t taken the Duke for an idiot. He’d taken him for an ass.

Tréville only nodded to Athos’ questioning look. As Athos handed his pistol to Porthos, the Cardinal tried to reign in the idiocy only to meet silence. Athos heard him asking Tréville if ‘his man’ could win. There was little the man could do though as Athos continued to shed his leathers and pauldron.

“He who draws blood first, is the winner?” the Duke questioned Athos as he unsheathed his sword. Athos merely lifted his blade.

He touched their blades together, turning the Duke in a circle as he fixed the man with his gaze. He wouldn’t rush into the fight he hadn’t asked for but he _would_ be gauging his opponent. The Duke struck out first, pushing Athos back a few steps before Athos pressed back. The Duke landed a punch to Athos’ jaw but didn’t draw blood as Athos danced around him.

Athos wasn’t fully sure how he ended up sprawled on the King’s throne dais but he went with it, ignoring Porthos’ worried expression. He knew the importance of this duel. It had only been laid out in front of him not a moment before. It took him longer than he liked to spin the Duke around enough times to get him to finally fall but it was worth it as he pressed the point of his blade to the man’s right bosom.

Tréville yelled at him a few times before he dragged the blade away so that it only drew blood.

The Cardinal, tired vulture that he was, asked if nine in the morning would be a good time to discuss the treaty as Porthos chuckled at Athos, dragging him away from the Duke in a friendly display of comradery. They turned away from the royals before Porthos whispered to him.

“I’m glad it was you. I’d have cut his bloody head off.”

Tréville stormed over to them as Athos panted, ordering him to apologize for taking the Duke’s dignity. Silently, Athos knew he’d nearly started a war but he couldn’t bring himself to care. If Aramis’ friend was right…Actually, he didn’t wish to think about it.

Once he was fully dressed again, he went to apologize to the Duke. He called himself overzealous and listened as the Duke asked if he wanted a fair fight. The Duke then stunned him as he shed his shirt, his scarred back to Athos.

“You wanted to kill me,” the Duke said. “I could see it in your eyes.”

“You’re mistaken,” Athos stated. “What motive could a Musketeer possibly have for wanting to kill the Duke of Savoy?”

Outside, he and Porthos went over what they’d seen and heard. Athos would admit Marsac was right about the Duke being involved but not that Tréville was. The Duke alone wasn’t proof. They agreed to follow the Duke’s right hand man as he left for the rainy streets of Paris.

 

~*~*~

Porthos had followed the Duke’s man to a small tavern. The place was quiet considering what it was though there was the usual hum of business. He watched as the man met with another, asking about someone in the second’s care. Porthos was barely close enough to hear the conversation on the prisoner being spoken of but he could see someone who was much closer.

Radha was cloaked in a patched up cloth with a hood that hid her hair, pressed against a wall where she was nursing a mug of something. Porthos doubted she was actively drinking but he wouldn’t have been all that surprised if she was. She’d probably heard far more than he had but he would have to wait for the Duke’s man to pass him before he signaled for her to follow him.

She disappeared before he could catch her gaze though. He shook his head in amazement. He’d forgotten how quick one had to be when running information. He finished his mug and left in silence, knowing Radha wouldn’t be far from d’Art once she’d finished. Besides, he had to make sure this other gentleman wasn’t up to anything nefarious.

When the second man left, striding into the rain like a normal man with an unburdened conscious, Porthos followed him all the way to the jail gates. He watched for a moment as the man disappeared into the gates when he spotted Radha again as she disappeared down another alleyway. There was another person with her, blonde hair drenched by the rain.

_Charlotte_ , he thought as the two vanished into the gray of the rain soaked buildings. _Well damn_.

 

~*~*~

Aramis had gone through Tréville’s office while they’d been gone, bringing news that the Captain had documented every mission and duty the Regiment had handled from start to present day. There was no documentation on Savoy though and Aramis knew his voice was getting a bit on the passionate side as he pointed out the lack of evidence on Savoy ever happening.

“Perhaps you just didn’t find them?” d’Art asked in a calm voice.

“Filling was meticulous,” Aramis retorted. “There’s nothing there. They were either moved or destroyed.”

“I’m still confident there’s a perfectly good explanation,” d’Art said.

“I’ll be happy to hear it,” Marsac spouted out.

“I agree it’s troubling but I agree with d’Artagnan,” Athos stated, earning a glare at the use of the boy’s full name.

“Content to do nothing are you?” Aramis asked. “What evidence do you need to see something is wrong? What will it take Athos?”

“I’ll never believe the Captain is a traitor.”

“You think I _want_ to?”

“Let me help,” Marsac pled. “I give my word as a gentleman that I won’t try to leave.”

Athos and d’Art shared looks at the statement, d’Art shaking his head with a dark look crossing his young face. Marsac pled for Aramis to vouch for him, proclaiming he knew him well enough. He pushed that everything he’d said had turned out to be true so far when Aramis showed resistance, asking why he’d deceive them. Why would he deceive them now? He was being proven right.

Athos cut the rope despite d’Art sending him a dark look.

“Nutters,” d’Art hissed, his brown eyes fixed on Aramis before he turned away.

 

~*~*~

The four of them had waited for Tréville to arrive, Porthos filling them in on what he’d spotted while he’d been following the Duke’s man. Athos had been the one to tell Tréville their purpose; they had a question. Aramis went on to explain to Tréville that he’d sent men out to Savoy for an exercise only to end up with twenty of them dead, one deserted, and the last wounded. Porthos explained where the original blame had fallen, a Spanish raiding party.

“What do you mean, ‘at the time’?” Tréville asked.

“We have information that claims the Duke of Savoy was the responsible party,” d’Art explained in a soft tone he hoped telegraphed his unwillingness to believe what they were about to accuse the man of. Tréville went silent.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Aramis stated.

“I’m only surprised at your dereliction of duty,” Tréville shot back. “Get back to your posts before I lose my temper.”

D’Art sighed as Aramis led the continued charge after the man into his office, Athos and Porthos following Aramis’ lead. Tréville stated he wasn’t accountable to them and Aramis claimed he was to the men who had been killed. Tréville gave him a warning that Porthos shot down as quickly as it had arrived. Within moments, the entire exchange devolved into a shouting match for them to leave and Aramis questioning who killed his friends. And then, it was silent.

“Who have you been speaking with?” Tréville asked.

“That doesn’t matter,” Athos stated as he stalked up the desk. “All that does is the truth.”

Tréville was breathing heavily through his nose as he told them to leave, refusing to answer their questions. Outside, Aramis declared Marsac correct while d’Art tried to reason with him that Tréville hadn’t admitted anything.

“He didn’t have to! It was written all over his face.”

“The _Captain_ in the finest man I’ve ever met!” Porthos argued. “When it comes down to it, I’d rather be on his side than Marsac’s!”

Aramis left in a huff, claiming he wasn’t content doing nothing.

 

~*~*~

Constance had never thought she’d find herself scared of the young man living under her roof. Well, that wasn’t completely true. She was scared of the knowledge of what he could – and would – do after her own revelation of being able to do much of the same. She was sacred for him because of what he did, what he wished to become. Yet, she’d never admit that she’d seen this young man this frightful in her life.

Marsac was drunk, paying her compliments she stated she wanted no part of. He’d claimed that she’d be more receptive had he been d’Artagnan – who ever the bloody hell that was – and she’d shied away from his touch. When he asked for a kiss, she’d slapped him. That was when Marsac had stood and pinned the backs of her legs to the table as he attempted to kiss her. She’d struggled against him, squeaking as she twisted and tried to get a grip on him so she could shove him away.

What had been only a few seconds had lengthened by her fear of what was happening as well as her disbelief. She’d found herself surprised when d’Art walked into the room and immediately punched the man off of her.

“Touch her again and I’ll _kill you_ ,” the young man said, his voice turning into a dark whisper that she didn’t recognize as his speaking.

Marsac held up a pleading hand to d’Art as he remained on the floor, blubbering about once being a man of honor. Once d’Art had checked if she was alright and Marsac left with his apologies, d’Art shoving him out the door, Constance was able to think over what had just happened. It occurred once again that she knew little to nothing about d’Art despite his living in her home. It was a worrisome realization that she trusted him even though she knew nothing about him past who he tended to be around and how sweet he was when she asked for his help. She’d have to fix that.

When he returned to the room as she was cleaning the dishes, he assured her Marsac wouldn’t bother her again. Tying people up was a normal thing for him apparently.

“Just as well you came when you did…I might have hurt him.”

“Sorry,” d’Art stated. “I’ve brought you nothing but trouble it seems.”

She smiled as she shared that she’d never been so popular in her life when it came to strange men kissing her. He stated his wish to make amends.

“Teach me to shoot,” she whispered in his ear. He blushed at her as she continued, asking to be taught to use a sword as well as a pistol. “Why should men have all the fun?” she asked, earning his smile that lit up the room like nothing else. “Why do women have to be dignified and ladylike?”

“Good question,” he said. “I have no idea.”

“Oh, before you go off on another adventure,” she said as she stood to leave. “Marsac said something strange before he tried to kiss me.”

“What was it and do I need to hit him again?”

“He thought I’d be more receptive if he were someone called d’Artagnan.”

The young man sighed then, his eyes regretful.

“I need to talk to idiots about spreading my name so freely,” d’Art muttered. At her astonished look he gave her a sheepish smile. “Sorry but I tend to only share my name with certain people…Though, I would have liked to have told you myself.”

“I…Thank you for telling me,” she said with a soft smile. She pressed her lips to his cheek in a chaste sign of affection. “Anything else I should know?”

“A few things…”

“I’ll wait then.”

 

~*~*~

“d’Art!” Radha hissed in to courtyard outside the garrison, a woman standing next to her with a hood that shrouded her face. D’Art stared at her with wide eyes for a moment, taking in how she was waving for him to come over, a finger jabbing at Porthos and Athos every few seconds. He glanced at the two men who shrugged at him but followed him out of the courtyard anyway. “Radha,” he said with a soft voice, a hand tugging the scarf on his neck up to his chin. It was a twitch he had grown into around her and it surprised him that he was comfortable enough around the men with them to let it slip. “What’s wrong?” “You and I need to talk,” she whispered. “That can wait a bit though. This woman was a bit lost when I found her. My Lady?” The woman pulled the hood back far enough for them to see her face. They bowed instantly as the Duchess of Savoy spoke. “I have no time for explanations,” she said. “There’s a prisoner we must find.”

“Cluzet?” Athos asked.

“You know him?”

“Not exactly,” Porthos admitted.

“But, we know where he is,” Radha assured. She glanced at d’Art. “Pick got in a peek without getting caught. The man’s in solitude with only one guard on his door.”

“The Duke is going to find him at this very moment,” the Duchess stated. “For the sake of France, he must not discover him.”

“We can’t stop the Duke from entering the prison,” Athos stated. He should have expected to see the street rats grinning like idiots.

“Doesn’t mean his has to find him inside,” they chimed in perfect, god awful unison.

Radha disappeared on them once their plan was made, claiming she’d slow the carriage as long as she could. Athos followed the duchess down into the bowels of the prison, Porthos and d’Art behind him. D’Art stood guard at the cell door as Porthos and Athos helped the Duchess move Cluzet out of the cell and leave the Musketeer cook in his stead.

Porthos wrestled the old man out of the cell as Athos dragged the unconscious jailer out after them. Before he disappeared with the Duchess down the hall, he and d’Art stripped the jailer of his hat and cloak. D’Art donned the ragged clothing, hiding his sword with a flutter of cloth before settling the door in place and sitting on the stool nearby.

The Duke had been screaming Cluzet’s name all the way down the hall until he’d made it to where d’Art was sitting. He ordered the young man to open the door, the Cardinal trying to stop him. The Cardinal changed his order once he recognized who was standing there though, the sound of the door opening their only clue.

They waited in silence as the Cardinal talked the Duke into working on the treaty, swatting aside the worries of an assassination attempt like it was a pest. As they left, Athos peered around the corner to catch d’Art and the Cardinal share a look.

“Nice look,” Porthos said to the young man as he stepped over to them. “Better with the hat.”

“Thank you,” the Duchess stated.

“Our pleasure,” Athos stated as Porthos wrestled their esteemed guest back to his cell.

“I apologize for Radha,” d’Art said with a ducked head and a shy smile. “She’s a bit thickheaded at times.”

“Not at all,” the Duchess said. “I don’t know how much time she may have bought us but I’m grateful for it none the less.”

“Thank you Your Grace,” the boy stated with a quick bow. “Now I have to find out what she meant by that statement earlier.”

 

~*~*~

Aramis had almost been too late. His old friend had Tréville at gun point and was mad enough to point another pistol at Aramis himself. Marsac, who knew Aramis was one of the best shots in the whole regiment, was pointing a pistol at him.

The exchange fell into Tréville’s explanation of why he’d given up their camp; to protect the Duchess, the King’s sister, and most important spy. Cluzet was working for the Spanish and would have given her up. The Duke would have killed her had he known. Marsac brought up the number of men killed again. Tréville admitted to being misled, that the Cardinal had told the Duke the party was an assassination attempt trying to put his infant son on his throne.

Marsac continued to point the guns at them, claiming it had to end there. He fired at Aramis’ right and Aramis ended up shooting him with his backup pistol.

“Better to die a Musketeer than to live like a dog,” Marsac whispered to him in response to his apology. Aramis held him to his chest in silence.

As the party from Savoy left, he and Tréville buried Marsac with full rights. He explained to Tréville that Marsac’s spirit had died in that camp twenty years ago and it had taken his body a long while to catch up to it. When Tréville left, he pleaded for Marsac to find rest with his brothers, leaving his sword as a grave marker before leaving.


	26. Documents, Booze, and Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me far longer than it should have to find the 'rich text' button....

Tréville stormed into his office, soaking wet and dripping water all over the wood. He was still mad over the situation he’d ended up in thanks to the Cardinal and his scheming. Loss of friends and family was never an easy thing to deal with but he couldn’t get over how little Richelieu cared about twenty dead men, a soldier suffering survivor’s guilt, and a confused Regiment. He was left to think over his actions alone and it never ended well.

Brandy had never been his friend.

“Evening,” a soft rumble called from the shadows.

Tréville’s hand flew to his sword pommel as he spun about to find d’Art sitting in the shadows of his office space, the gray light from the storm casting an eerie glow on the boy’s olive skin.

“d’Art,” he grunted as he pried his fingers one by one from his sword. “Did you break in?”

“Why would I do that, Sir?” he asked from his seat. Tréville fixed him with a glare. “You left the window open. It was an invitation.”

“To you maybe,” Tréville grumbled as he stalked past the young man to find the window he’d indeed left open.

Rain was dribbling off the overhang in river droplets into the room. A couple muddy footprints had scuffed the sill and floor next to the window. Tréville frowned at the mud trail that faded on the way into his office as he pulled the window shut with a low groan from the sodden wood.

He crossed back to d’Art to find the boy pulling a small satchel from under his brown leather jacket. Taking a closer look at the boy, Tréville found his hair was plastered to his brow, side of his face, and the back of his neck. The leather of his jacket was darker over the back, shoulders, and chest. His trousers were also dark from the rain as his boots were splattered with mud. The scarf around his neck was damp enough to sag from the added weight, revealing a dark line Tréville felt looked familiar.

“You come to apologize?” Tréville asked as he crossed to his desk. He tossed his gloves on the wood top before attending to his cloak.

“In a way,” d’Art murmured as he pulled the satchel off his shoulder, his body rising from the chair he’d been occupying. He dropped the satchel onto Tréville’s desk. “This time, burn them.”

Tréville cocked a brow up in confusion and interest. D’Art tended to tell him information outright – though the boy tended to whisper but that was understandable. It was odd to see him have a bag on his person let alone to hear him suggest burning something.

“What are they?” he asked.

“You’ll see,” was the distant reply. Tréville glanced up to spot the young man’s back retreating through the hallway to the garrison courtyard. He hadn’t even heard the boy moving.

As the brown clad back disappeared, Tréville snorted as he shook his head. He remained quiet for a moment as he stared at the satchel on his desk. It was probably pertinent information for d’Art to go the whole way of hiding it under his jacket to keep it dry rather than just memorizing it and presenting it in his usual fashion; speaking bluntly.

Sighing, he leaned forward to pull the canvas bag open to find a set of papers hidden within. He brushed off dry dirt from his fingers with a confused look before pulling the pages out. His eyes skimmed over the initial pages until he began to realize he was looking at his own handwriting. Handwriting that went over what orders he’d given concerning Savoy.

He read it over from the beginning again, his eyes growing wider and wider as they slipped from the pages to the door and the window, thinking d’Art would reappear out of the shadows. It had been twenty years since he’d seen these papers and he barely remembered the tiny boy he’d asked to hide them.

_“Don’t look at them. Just hide them where only you will know where they are.”_

_“They a secret?”_

_“A large one.”_

_“Must be.”_

_The child’s voice was muffled by the scarf he had looped over his nose as well as the large hood he had over his head. Tréville couldn’t quite make out his face but he’d spotted the boy running into alleyways sometime after Porthos had joined the Regiment. He had noticed the boy more the first few weeks before he had managed to get the patrols in order for the newest recruits. He’d then spotted the boy whenever he was with Porthos._

_The child tended to have a couple other children running about with him, specifically a pair of girls. The entire group tended to wear rags and hid their faces on occasion. He’d happened to catch the boy on a day when he was being more cautious than usual, considering the hood. Tréville had only recognized the lad from his specific patched up coat that his small frame – now that Tréville was close enough to gauge it – swam in._

_“Please keep your knowledge of these items to yourself, Lad,” he stated. He was about to leave when a thought occurred to him. “Can you read, Lad?”_

_“I live on the streets,” the boy said, slipping the hood from his dark hair to reveal his skin to be truly olive in color. Tréville tried to not smile at the memories the color reminded him of. He knew Gascony to be beautiful in the spring seeing as he was a Gascon himself._

_“A stupid question was it?”_

_The boy shrugged. “Doesn’t mean it’s not a good one; considering the circumstance.”_

_It was a long sentence and Tréville found his liked the soft rasp in the boy’s voice. He wasn’t sure where it came from but he doubted the boy spoke this casually with anyone he didn’t know very well. That much had been obvious from the terse words he’d thrown at Tréville before the man had managed to calm him down enough to talk._

_“I should know you name…should you have one,” Tréville said as he felt about for his purse. “It would be nice to know who I am putting trust in.”_

_“That’s_ my _secret,” the boy smiled. Tréville could tell he was from the glint in his chocolate eyes. The man sighed but saw the reasoning. The boy was probably only ten and was likely to have been told to keep certain things about himself to a select few people. This idea was only set further into stone when Tréville considered his shin was still throbbing from the boy’s well aimed kicks from earlier._

_“I understand,” he sighed. “Just…hide those?”_

_The boy nodded. Tréville turned to leave only to have his blue cloak caught by a tiny hand. He glanced back to find the boy looking up at him, a finger in the air asking for Tréville to wait. He waved the boy on, his palm facing up as he rolled his wrist through the gesture. The boy tucked a hand under the scarf and lifted it up to reveal a long jagged scar that made Tréville’s eyes widen. The scarf dropped._

_“There you go,” the boy said. He held up the documents. “I’ll hide these now. Take care.”_

_“Uh…thank you,” he called as the boy darted down the alley. “Stay safe.”_

_“I will!”_

Tréville tossed the documents into his desk, slamming the drawer closed. He’d have to wait for the rain to stop before he could burn the papers but that wasn’t what he was worried over. He hadn’t recognized d’Art and the boy had kept his secret. He’d have to thank him somehow. He’d been putting in a lot of time with Tréville’s three best men and had helped end quite a few problematic missions.

He had also been an irreplaceable envoy of information on where Tréville needed to spread his troops to keep the peace on the borders, in the city, and where he had to avoid finding his men at certain times of the day. The boy knew where certain people could or would hole up to avoid being found as well as what taverns were running scams. He knew who to talk to for whatever reason and he wasn’t a half bad shot.

Tréville had to make d’Art a Musketeer. It was only right after all. Besides, he wanted to know about that scar.

* * *

Porthos and Athos were watching Aramis drink himself stupid in a tavern near Aramis’ apartments. Neither was willing to talk about why Aramis was drinking but they were even less willing to leave the man alone. Porthos couldn’t see leaving a friend in pain and Athos felt he owed Aramis for all the nights the Spaniard had dragged  _him_ home.

While Aramis drank in silence, Athos decided he may as well talk to Porthos about d’Art. The boy wasn’t present so it was hopefully a safe move on Athos’ part. He was still unsure about how to handle d’Art since the Bonnaire incident. If he were honest with himself, he was mostly curious about the young man’s scarred neck as well as his intimacy with Porthos and Aramis. He’d been a bit surprised that d’Art hadn’t known about the massacre in Savoy despite being so close to the two men. He’d known of Porthos’ mother and her history after all.

Though, Athos could understand not speaking of such atrocities. He didn’t speak of Gascony anymore.

“Thank god d’Art’s talking to you again,” Porthos sighed before Athos could ask his questions.

Athos lifted a brow in question of the statement. He remembered d’Art’s silence the two weeks after they’d returned from Le Harve but he hadn’t thought about it. He’d burned the boy’s skin; he’d have been surprised if d’Art had done anything _besides_ not talk to him.

“What do you mean?” he asked as he sipped at his wine.

“d’Art has this habit of not talking to people if they don’t hold up to his expectations…or if he doesn’t trust them,” Porthos explained as he watched Aramis drain his cup. It was the fourth mug of wine so far and Aramis had already drunk five full mugs of ale. Porthos glanced back at Athos, a frown pulling the corners of his mustache down.

“Mind if I ask _why_ d’Artagnan wasn’t speaking to you?”

“Well…” Athos murmured as he twisted the ring on his finger, his eyes not catching the look of shock that passed over Porthos’ face when the sigil glinted in the candle light. “I did give him a nasty burn while drunk…It’s only fair he didn’t want to talk to me.”

He looked at Porthos in time to catch the man scrubbing a hand over his face as if he were trying to rub sleep from his features. He’d seen this before on long trips when Porthos got a long watch or when they’d all gotten a bit more drunk than usual – or than was strictly advised. Given the last couple of days, Athos wasn’t surprised at the motion.

“Why the worry over who d’Art speaks to?” Athos asked as casually as he could as he watched Aramis begin to blubber on about Savoy and Marsac, thinking he was useless. It was a rather sad sight to take in. Aramis was the serene one of their ranks where Porthos was the brawler and he was the brooding one. It was strange to see Aramis crying while drunk.

Porthos sighed, a growl flowing into the outtake of air. He scratched his head, his eyes closed as he scowled.

“Marsac was Aramis’ friend,” he said in a reasonable tone. “Aramis and Marsac didn’t really give Tréville a chance and d’Art seems to have taken a liking to Tréville.”

“How do you mean?”

“He talks to people he likes and he talks to Tréville a lot,” Porthos shrugged.

“Fastest…” Aramis burped. He cleared his throat and swallowed back something Athos wasn’t going to question. “d’Art took…to Tréville…fast.”

“It only took the man a few weeks,” Porthos elaborated.

“Second…fastest I’ve…seen,” Aramis slurred between halted belches. “Besides…you.” He pointed a swaying finger at Athos as he leaned over the table, eyeing the empty mug with contempt.

“Me?” Athos asked, a laugh bubbling in his chest. He shoved it down. Aramis had to be mistaken. “When we met, he was accusing me of highway robbery.”

“And then helped clear your name,” Porthos pointed out, the mug in his hand tipping towards Athos as he spoke. He took a gulp, groaning his satisfaction through his teeth.

“That’s because you two vouched my innocence,” Athos muttered into his cup. Aramis shook his head though, thanks to his drunkenness, his entire body swayed in time with it.

“That trinket,” Aramis slurred as he leaned over the table.

“What trinket?” Athos asked, something curling in his stomach as he did so.

“The one Port got him a chain for…It’s got that sigil on it.” His finger pressed against Athos’ ring as he spoke. Porthos’ eyes went wide for a moment, glowing with understanding and recollection.

“Same sigil as the crest at your home,” Porthos murmured as he stared at Athos. Aramis nodded, his eyes glassy. Athos shook his head, yanking his hand off the table and out of his friends’ sightlines.

“Impossible,” he muttered.

“Why?” Aramis asked, his tone dark and strong despite the drink in his system. “Why is it impossible? I’ve _seen_ the sigil on the trinket. Porthos has too. D’Art even admitted to me that it was from _you_!”

“It’s not possible,” Athos snarled through gritted teeth.

“How so?” Porthos asked, his expression dark, the earlier worries of the day forgotten.

“I’ve only ever given a trinket, as Aramis so eloquently described this object to be, to someone who can’t possibly be in Paris,” Athos hissed as he stood. He tossed a few coins onto the table with a clatter as he collected his cape from the stool. “Don’t get too drunk; Tréville will expect us tomorrow morning.”

He stormed out of the tavern, a sheet of rain slamming into his face as he bolted through the door. His mind was in a whirl of excitement as he pondered what Aramis and Porthos had said. What they had suggested. All over a trinket he hadn’t seen. He’d seen the chain the morning after the fire but the trinket…It had to have been tucked under d’Art’s shirt.

Aramis and Porthos were men he held in high regard; when they spoke he tended to listen. Aramis had seen the trinket. Porthos had gotten the chain Athos had seen for the trinket. Both knew Athos’ family crest was on it, the sigil something they’d seen at his home as well as his ring. Part of him wanted to believe them but another part of him, a larger part of him, feared their words being true. If they were right, little Charles had been standing at his side for months now. He had saved Athos’ life as well.

Athos shook his head. It wasn’t possible though. Charles’ family had been brutally murdered by bandits who had carried Charles off somewhere, never to be heard from or seen again. Even if Charles had managed to escape…Athos froze.

“That scar,” he whispered, a hand rising to brush against his throat. “He…No…it’s not possible. It can’t be…possible.”

He ran a hand through his hair in thought. Porthos would have seen the crescent shaped scar – if there was one – on d’Art’s back over the years. Aramis as well thanks to the number of scrapes Athos could only imagine a boy living on the streets getting into. He could look for that scar as proof. He could wait all year if he had to.

Yet, the trinket was the key. He knew it was. Aramis had stated Porthos had gotten a new chain for it. Neither of his friends mentioned the small time piece though. While he could argue to himself that he’d possibly left before they could speak of it, he couldn’t think of any reason why they wouldn’t have brought it up. Charles had kept the two objects together. He wouldn’t have separated them without just cause.

So, where was the time piece?

* * *

It was the middle of the night when Constance was awoken by a banging at the door of her husband’s house. The initial banging had caused her to spring into a sitting position, hands clutching the blankets to her breasts as if the cloth would shield her from the noise. As the ruckus continued, she slipped from her bed and padded to on bare feet to her bedroom door. She opened the door a crack and peeked through to spot d’Art moving for the door, a knife in his hand.

She smiled a bit at the young man, appreciating the sleeping glaze on his face that he scrubbed away with his free hand, his hair falling about his face and sticking up in the back. His trousers were rumpled, the hems caught up around his knees and the waistband sagging over his hips. She took considerable note of his lack of a shirt as a quick spike of fear for him without any sort of protection besides the chain on his neck shot through her.

Though, he was attractive to look at; something she noted as she realized she was licking her lips at the sight of him. A few scars traveled around his ribs in long, thin lines that she could barely spot in the gloom of the candlelight. There was one scar over his lower right back in the shape of a crescent moon that seemed lighter than the lines over his ribcage as well.

The scars on his torso weren’t what really drew her eyes though. It was the scar she’d spotted as she’d peeked through the doorway; the one that carved its way over his throat in a dark, jagged line. The scarf suddenly made sense to her when she saw it, her heart clenching at the thought of how d’Art could have gotten such a mark. She’d already noticed the burn on his clavicle from when he left to help with the arrest of a man called Bonnaire and he’d talked her out of worry over it.

She watched as he flipped the knife so the blade was pointing to his elbow, his movements slow and deliberate as he stalked towards the door. The banging continued as d’Art paused at the door, back pressed against the wall, his weapon bearing arm over his chest with the knife aimed for the door. His free arm crossed his torso to touch the door handle, ripping it open in a smooth motion as the knife glinted in the pale moonlight.

The glinting silver of the blade halted in midair.

“ _Aramis_!” d’Art hissed, his voice caked with disbelief as he lowered the weapon.

“d’Artagnan,” came a muffled voice that Constance could recognize easily; even with the drunken slur.

“You smell of booze,” d’Art muttered, his nose wrinkling as if to drive the point home.

“Been drinking,” the man admitted, the slur becoming more pronounced as he lumbered his way inside, bumping d’Art along the way.

“Careful, you moron!” d’Art hissed as he lifted the knife away from the swaying Musketeer who had just invaded Constance’s home. “What are you doing you dolt?”

The door squeaked to a closed state as Aramis stumbled into her dining room, tripping on the flat wood. D’Artagnan followed him inside, shoving the man into a seat when the swaying got a bit out of hand. The knife disappeared into a sheath Constance hadn’t spotted on d’Artagnan’s right thigh before which made her wonder if he was ambidextrous in all aspects of his life. He could certainly shoot a pistol from either hand; a skill he’d told her of when explaining what level he’d been taught to by Aramis.

The Spaniard slumped in the chair, the wood creaking from his displaced weight, as d’Artagnan moved to his room. When the young man returned he was pulling a shirt over his head, arms flailing about as he stumbled back to the table. He too sank to a chair facing Aramis as he tugged the shirt into place, the lacings open despite the cool night air.

“Aramis,” d’Art prompted as he combed his hands through his hair.

“’M drunk,” Aramis slurred.

“You shot a man today,” d’Art said as he combed his hair back. His tone was flippant but his brown eyes glowed with sympathy. “I’d expect you to be drunk considering the circumstances.”

“’M sorry,” Aramis mumbled, leaning forward to press his forehead to d’Art’s, a hand cupping the back of the younger man’s head.

“Vomit on me and I gut you like a fish,” d’Art warned through Constance couldn’t hear any threat in his voice.

“Not that drunk.”

“Says the man who smells like a brewery.”

“Told Athos…”

“About Marsac? I’d have thought he’d heard all on his own since he and Porthos took you to dinner,” d’Art muttered as he squirmed out of Aramis’ grip. “Sit back. I’ll get you some water.” He struggled with Aramis for a moment then, the older man’s arms flailing about as d’Art tried to keep him still. Aramis seemed to be trying to do the same though he was less coordinated.

“Trinket,” Aramis mumbled, hands fisting in d’Art’s shirt.

“What about it?”

“Told Athos,” Aramis repeated.

There was a deafening silence that engulfed the two for a moment. Constance’s back went stiff as she avoided moving. As concerned as she was, she feared alerting the two. Both were armed and she only had on a sleep dress that she wasn’t going to give either one of them a show.

She covered her mouth with a hand when d’Art smacked Aramis on the back of the head, a scowl darkening his olive skinned face.

“What is it about you and Porthos talking about things I’ve _asked_ you to keep silent about!?” d’Artagnan hissed. Aramis ducked his head, a hand rubbing where d’Artagnan had smacked him.

“I’m drunk,” Aramis mumbled. “I talk when I’m–,” he stifled a burp, “drunk.”

D’Art groaned, a hand scrubbing over his face. He propped his elbows on his knees as he leaned his head into his palms.

“You’re barefoot,” Aramis mumbled, an apology hidden in the words.

“I was _sleeping_ ,” d’Art grunted. His head shot up then, eyes searching towards Constance’s position. “I don’t _think_ you woke the Madame of this house…yet.”

“Right…the _married_ Madame,” Aramis chuckled with a smirk that Constance recognized with ease. She’d seen him use it a few times before during her husband’s dealings with the Musketeers. There were a few too many times Aramis had leered at a young thing that happened by him when he was being measured for a new cloak or with another Musketeer for the same errand. As dashing

“I’ll hit you again,” d’Art warned, a finger jabbing Aramis’ forehead. “No innuendos.”

“You and sex must have had a disagreement,” Aramis snickered, sounding far more sober than he had a few moments ago. There was still a slight slur to his speech patterns but Constance still rolled her eyes at his antics.

“You think I’m inexperienced don’t you?” d’Artagnan grumbled. There was drunken laughter from Aramis which deepened the frown on d’Artagnan’s face.

“About the trinket…”

“You’ve already told him about it,” d’Art sighed, his hand combing his hair back again as he leaned against the chair back that creaked in response to the pressure. “How’d he take it?”

“Not well?” Aramis murmured.

“How so?” His tone matched Constance’s cocked head.

“Called our allegations ‘impossible’ and claimed the person he gave that,” he pointed at the trinket swinging from the chain on his neck, “to can’t be in Paris.”

D’Artagnan smirked, a snort dragging through his nose, his shoulders hiking up as the snort dissolved into soft snickering. He covered his nose and mouth with a hand as he continued laughing as quietly as he could manage.

“You find this funny?” Aramis grumbled, the slur continuing to drag through his words.

“Already had a feeling,” d’Art chuckled, the hand over his mouth leaving his chin to wave at the air like he was batting away a bug.

“And you’re not going to do anything…are you?” Aramis asked.

“No,” d’Art said. “It’s been over twenty years and I knew he lost faith in me a while ago.”

Constance blinked at the comment. She’d learned from the first day she’d seen d’Artagnan with Porthos and Aramis, she’d assumed he’d known the two for a while. Further time around the boys who’d become her unwelcome brothers, she’d found that assumption truer than she’d expected. However, she hadn’t expected him to have known Athos for as long as he just claimed. It was a bit shocking to find d’Art had known Athos for two-thirds of his life but wasn’t remembered.

Aramis hummed, his body swaying in a drunken motion. Constance hugged her body as she watched the two sit in silence, thinking over the shame of the situation before her. Aramis had lost a friend that day to his own shooting and now she was learning that d’Artagnan was following a man he’d known for years without that man’s knowledge. It was a shame. D’Art was such a good man – better than her husband in many ways – and for him to know a person he obviously cared for didn’t remember him was a painful idea.

“Just so you know,” d’Art sighed. “Marsac did something rude and so…”

“Not talking to me for a while?” Aramis asked.

“After tonight.”

“Think I need more ale in me.”

“You’ve had enough. Water. Now. And then, I’ll drag your sorry ass home,” d’Art muttered as he stood to collect a cup from Constance’s sink.

“How’d I get here?”

“I assume you walked,” d’Art grumbled. “You really must be drunk if you don’t remember coming here.”

“Porthos left me at my apartments…”

“Really drunk,” d’Art mumbled. “Stay seated. I’ll get you some water and return you to your home before sun up.”

“Okay,” Aramis said. “Sorry…about telling him.”

“Dolt. You’re forgiven for it. Stay.”

Aramis raised two fingers to his temple in a weak motion, his body tipping dangerously on the chair. D’Artagnan halted his fall with a deft hand on his shoulder. D’Art rolled his eyes as he placed the cup on the table with a soft clank. He dragged Aramis to his feet and the two stumbled into d’Art’s room. As their feet scuffled over the wood, Constance slipped to her bed to pull on her night coat. The scuffling continued as she slipped out of her room, pulling the thick cloth tight to her body as she combed her hair into a more presentable straightness.

She leaned against the jamb of the door as d’Art finished hefting Aramis’ legs onto the narrow bed. She decided to not frown too heavily at the dirty boots he dropped onto the bed. She tried to not laugh when the young man jerked to a halt when he turned to find her standing at his door. His eyes went wide for a moment before he ducked his head.

“My apologies Madame,” he said with a soft voice that she could barely hear over the wood cutting snore that erupted from Aramis. “I’ll make sure he knows not to come here when drunk.”

She smiled at him before she touched her fingertips to her neck. He blinked at her before his hand flew up to his bare neck. The embarrassment from before disappeared with a strange sort of fear she’d never thought him capable of having.

“I assume,” she said in a careful manner, “you’ll tell me when you’re ready?”

He blushed. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”

She smiled again and nodded in understanding. “He may appreciate not having to sleep in his boots,” she whispered, pointing at the shoes on her bedspread.

“I’ll wash it,” he called after her as she went back to bed.

“Indeed you will,” she smirked.


	27. Homecoming: Part 1

Truth be told, Porthos had had better birthdays.

Porthos loved his nights out with his brothers in arms. He and Aramis had started the ‘tradition’ of going out together some time after Aramis had gotten better since Savoy. They’d fallen into the habit sometime after they’d started teaching d’Art how to shoot and fight. Once d’Art was old enough to drink in public ten years ago, he’d been a perfect addition with his silent smiles and mischievous winks. Athos hadn’t been as easy to drag along thanks to the man having a storehouse of wine in his apartments but they’d managed it a few times.

Taverns and pubs were places where all sorts of news happened. Almost every person they had to follow preferred ale, mead, or wine and they were good at pretending to drink while they listened in on targets. D’Art was one of the best people he’d had around for those nights in a tavern while they had to wait for a target to make a move. His silence was welcoming when it was needed though he had a way of knowing when to speak to make the time pass quicker.

The times when they weren’t hunting some sort of rouge of the week was when they had the most fun they could. Lately, the nights had become a bit of a show as they went on. Aramis had found a squash and was willing to try the ‘dead man’s shot’ with him. Porthos disliked the idea of shooting at a friend – Aramis especially – but they had alcohol in their systems and Aramis knew how Porthos’ aim while inebriated was hard to call…impressive. He could hit the squash but he couldn’t hit the smaller head beneath it.

A thankful thing really considering this game of theirs had started partially to get Athos to do something other than mope. They’d only figured out Porthos’ drunken shooting wasn’t half bad a few days prior to dragging Athos out and that had been with an inanimate target on an inanimate stand. They’d been lucky these last five years.

He remembered hearing Athos and d’Art muttering about him being drunk and never making this sort of shot while sober. He had been a bit concerned that Aramis would put so much trust in him as well, considering his past. It did worry him that d’Art had been the one looking worried though.

While Aramis had, as expected, gotten a cold shoulder from d’Art for a few days after Mar sac’s death, d’Art had continued talking to Tréville. D’Art had been wary to approach the man at first but Tréville had been patient with him. It was understandable the boy had been wary after what had happened.

He was also a bit concerned over how Athos had been acting around them since learning of the d’Art’s hidden trinket. Athos, however, had been watching the young man more acutely than before. There had been one, uneasy, conversation the three of them had shared a day or so after the tense revelation. Athos was unwilling to believe them on the possibility that d’Art was the person he’d given the trinket to. He’d stated he had a way to know if d’Art was the person he’d given the gift to but he wasn’t going to share it. He and Aramis decided to let it lie though they didn’t like the idea much. They agreed to not tell d’Art about the situation since it was too close to home.

Porthos couldn’t ignore the looks that Athos would shoot towards d’Art’s turned back though. Looks that seemed to question the boy’s existence. Porthos couldn’t understand those looks but he could understand the questions behind them. He and Aramis _had_ recently brought those questions up themselves when they’d treaded on unmapped ground around Athos.

When he’d woken up with a searing headache he was understandably confused and slightly annoyed. He could take sleeping in the dirt, he’d done it a few times. Sleeping in the dirt near a dead body with Red Guards standing around him wasn’t something he liked though. With no clear memories of how he’d gotten into the situation, he found himself liking it even less when the Guards dragged him to a crowded cell.

“Surely you remember _something_ ,” Aramis had muttered to him from the other side of the bars. “The dead man, his name, where you met him?”

“You didn’t kill him,” Athos had hissed, trust glowing in his blue eyes. “There’s been a misunderstanding,” he’d amended with a calmer tone. “We’ll clear it up.”

The judge had been…an unwavering ass. He wouldn’t listen to Tréville and seemed eager to pass a sentence without full knowledge of the situation. It probably didn’t help that all Porthos’ celebrating had made it difficult for _him_ to piece things together. His joking probably didn’t help either. A grand ‘birthday’ indeed.

Tréville’s vouching for him went nowhere, the name Porthos had adopted – du Vallon – falling on biased ears. The judge didn’t like how Porthos wasn’t really a nobleman or that Tréville had called someone like Porthos better than any gentleman. The judge called him a mongrel none the less.

As much as he’d resented Bonnaire, he found himself thinking that Bonnaire at least had charm – and confused thinking – behind his idiotic ways. The judge was too forthright and Porthos thought it unprofessional of someone of such a man’s status and position to voice opinions on others without an understandable basis for those opinions. Thinking of things as only business was beginning to look almost polite.

He glanced at d’Art as his sentence was passed. He tried not to frown at how the young man didn’t look at him, brown eyes fixed on something in the crowd, as Tréville bellowed that he’d appeal the king. When the Guards ripped his pauldron from his shoulder, he saw d’Art being held back by Aramis and Athos from leaping over the gate.

He fought the Guards, roaring profanity through gritted teeth, the whole way. If d’Art was going to be recklessness he wouldn’t go complacently. His pride wouldn’t allow him to. He expected Tréville to have his friends delay the departure if it was possible. He would do them every favor he could to make the delay easier.

The sounds of shots ringing caught him off guard. He hadn’t thought the others would be stupid enough to shoot Red Guards in public. Watching his new rescuers however, he took note of the masks they wore. Maybe his brothers weren’t as stupid as they – all four of them – acted after all.

“Athos,” he breathed to the one who stopped in front of him. The club the man was holding connected with his head and d’Art’s voice calling his name was the last thing he heard before darkness engulfed him.

* * *

 D’Artagnan had kept little secret from the Musketeers since he’d started wandering after their three best. His wish to keep his name secret had been accepted – for the most part – without judgment from the men he’d dealt with. Tréville had made sure that no one questioned his wish and had respected it himself. They all knew he had a history much like Porthos’ and knew that the freedom such a life gave him had been working in their favor as of late.

Out of every Musketeer who knew him though, there were four who knew him best; Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and Tréville. While Tréville didn’t have his full name, all four men knew his loyalties lay solely with anyone who wore the King’s fleur-de-lis and the children who ran with and for him. Yet, only Porthos and Aramis knew where he’d grown up and that was something he wasn’t willing to share out any further.

The gates before the Court of Miracles hadn’t changed since he’d last seen them; crowded and decrepit as ever. His blood had run cold when Athos had revealed the Criminal’s Mark on the man he’d shot from the cart. Standing amongst people who recognized him as a fellow thief did nothing to warm him either as they clanged their pots and pans against the wood braces in warning of intruders. Those who didn’t bang sticks or pans held knives at the ready while hiding their faces behind masks.

 _Do nothing_ , he reminded himself as he followed Aramis through the throng of people. _Unless you’re attacked_. He tugged his scarf up over his lips, catching it on the tip of his nose as he watched for any ill movements from the residents.

They halted before the gate, staring up at the dilapidated wood the crisscrossed the frame for a moment before Aramis deemed it too dangerous to stay. Athos asked on Porthos’ safety which Aramis returned with assurances that Porthos was not only safe within the Court, but that he had friends. D’Art held his scarf over his nose as they returned to their horses, his eyes darted around the crowd for anyone who may recognize him. He spotted Charlotte and Radha with little issue as they leaned over a parapet, beating their own sticks together. Radha nodded at him, her eyes narrowed at the ruckus.

He didn’t dare to pull down the scarf until he, Athos, and Aramis were away from the gate to talk. Athos muttered over the Court doing more for the people than the Lord as he proved a one-eyed cripple had his sight and his leg. He paid the man, telling him to buy an instrument, before turning back to them.

“I’m going to find him,” Athos stated. “You two should go the Ren; see what you can find.”

“No,” d’Art muttered.

“What?” Athos hissed. D’Art didn’t appreciate the tone, even if it was warranted.

“You won’t make it past the gates,” he explained. “Go with Aramis. I’ll find Porthos.”

“d’Art, you may be a street kid but that will not grant you access to the Court,” Athos muttered as he sheathed his knife. “I can play a beggar just fine.”

Aramis held up a hand, his eyes fixed on d’Art. The young man shook his head at Athos’ statement.

“You can’t play a beggar here,” d’Art said. “Everyone knows everyone here. You’ll be a new face and they don’t like those.” He turned to Aramis then. “I can do this.”

“You’re sure?” Aramis asked.

“I grew up with Porthos, remember?” he asked, ignoring the slack jaw Athos had adopted at the statement. It really should have been obvious by now, what with how well Porthos and Aramis knew him.

“I do,” Aramis sighed. “Just…”

“I’ll be fine,” d’Art assured with a soft smile. “No one’ll do me any harm. Besides, Athos won’t make it past the gate.”

“Aramis!” Athos attempted to argue only to have Aramis shake his head.

“d’Art knows the Court better than Porthos,” Aramis said. “He’ll be fine.” He turned to d’Art, his eyes lit with worry. “Find him. Make sure he’s alright. No heroics.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

“Charon,” Porthos ground out as the beaming sunlight quit blinding him. He never liked being knocked unconscious or hauled around with a sack over his head. It made him feel vulnerable and he didn’t do vulnerable. Well, not willingly.

He didn’t bother trying to stand, knowing he’d only be shoved down by the two men behind him. Though, he did give them a stern warning of pain to come should they touch him again. He couldn’t help but notice that when Charon give a jerk of his chin, the two backed away.

“Been a while, huh?” Charon asked him. “Aren’t you glad to be home again?”

His voice had gotten deeper, more graveled over the years. It was like Porthos was listening to d’Art through puberty all over again; it just wasn’t as cute or welcome. Where d’Art’s growing up had been something Porthos had enjoyed watching, he hadn’t expected to see Charon since he’d joined the Musketeers. He had hoped that if he _were_ to see Charon again, it would be under circumstances that didn’t involve a death or a wrongful conviction.

“Yeah,” he muttered through confused panting as he looked over the room. “’Course. _Why_?”

“We are still friends,” Charon stated. “Even if you have forgotten us a long time ago.”

“I didn’t forget,” Porthos ground out.

Charon held out a hand for him then. He glared at it for a moment before he took it. Familiar and unfamiliar calluses rubbed against his hand as he was pulled to his feet. He tried to not frown as he noticed new calluses on his own hand that had come from his time away. He didn’t need any further reminders that he’d been gone for a while. There were plenty staring him the face as it was.

“You really don’t remember if you killed that man, do you?” Charon asked.

“No more idea than you,” Porthos muttered, trying to not sound bitter.

If Charon had heard, it was likely from the Young Ones that ran information. News tended to travel fast but the proceedings on this particular case had been worse than fast. Charon, if he was behind Porthos’ current kidnapping, would have had to have had his men ready for the sentencing at least the day before. That would mean that he’d have heard about the situation soon after Porthos had been arrested.

“You seem disappointed.”

“I have a reputation to see to,” Charon murmured. “People think I saved the life of a murderer.”

“Well, maybe you did,” Porthos muttered.

He didn’t expect the admission of his own doubt to sting quite as much as it did. The throb went down a bit as Charon held up arms open and welcoming for Porthos and they embraced each other as the brothers they’d once been. It was warm in Charon’s embrace though a small part of him continued to worry over how much they had grown apart since he’d left.

“You’re the King here now?” he asked as he looked over the curtain filled room. He remembered this place well. He’d nursed d’Art through a couple fevers on the beds on the south wall, played cards with Flea and Charon near the windows, and had played hide and seek in the curtains. He’d listened to the Father preach under this painted ceiling.

Charon nodded, a chuckle rising in his eyes. “A king of sorts.”

* * *

Athos found himself unable to stand still as Aramis flirted information out of an old woman in the Ren. Aramis had awoken the woman by pouring sour smelling wine into a mug while Athos had leaned against a support pillar, a hand on his sword pommel.

“Is it raining Musketeers?” she’d asked, earning a chuckle from Aramis. The two talked about Porthos’ last visit. There had been a young man who’d argued with someone. The woman had attested that the young man didn’t seem like a regular at the tavern.

Outside in the mud, Athos stood over Aramis as the Spaniard looked through the muck. Athos was taking note of how often he moved his hands to his sword, his pistols, and his knife with a rueful glare at his twitching feet. His mind was wandering off after d’Art which was why he couldn’t stand still.

He was worried. He would sooner die than admit that fact out loud but it was a fact none the less.

He knew d’Art could climb, shoot, and possibly grapple but the Court of Miracles wasn’t a place he could imagine the boy in. Growing up on the streets, he could see. He’d seen it enough to know the boy wasn’t made for staying in a little house. He couldn’t imagine the boy settling down with anyone other than – possibly – Constance and he already knew how d’Art felt about causing the woman undue dishonor.

Porthos and Aramis had admitted on several occasions to teaching d’Art. Athos could imagine them in an alcove away from people practicing to their hearts content. He could see them sharing a rough day’s events in the dim lighting of a pub, d’Art eating his fill while Porthos and Aramis drank. He could see d’Art kicking the two men out of self-pity.

He couldn’t – wouldn’t – see d’Art in the Court of Miracles.

It didn’t matter that he’d seen d’Art pull a ratty, patched cloak from his saddlebags. It didn’t matter that he’d seen d’Art switch his usual jacket for the ratty cloak. Seeing the young man don the cloak didn’t change that. The boy’s fixing the scarf on his neck to hide his nose and mouth after handing Athos the chain from his neck only cemented the need to worry; a need that grew as he pressed his hand to the hidden trinket in his pocket.

“Where’s the blood?” Aramis mumbled from where he was squatting. Athos looked around, his blue eyes focusing on the brown of the dirt under his feet.

“Not here,” he grumbled. “He wasn’t shot here.”

“Perhaps we should look in on the victim himself?” Aramis suggested. Athos sighed but began trudging back towards the coroner’s place none the less.

In the underground hall Athos and Aramis listened to the coroner explain what the usual procedure for the unidentified bodies was. Athos picked up the portable timepiece from the table sitting at the body’s head and flicked it open.

“A son of the nobility,” the podgy coroner said as Athos closed the watch. “Tragedy. Put that key _down_. It’s evidence.”

Athos tucked the key into a pocket as Aramis asked about where the young man, Jean, had been shot and why there was any need to cut into his deceased body. The coroner was full of himself, calling Aramis’ personal experience on the how close the pistol had been to the boy’s head ‘hardly a clinical observation’.

“Killing isn’t an exact science,” Athos muttered. “It’s a messy business.”

“And as soldiers,” Aramis said, pointing to Athos and himself with his hat, “it is our business.”

Athos stormed outside once they were done there, seething at the sick sense of superiority he’d witnessed. Science? Learning a lot from a fresh cadaver? Rubbish. The man they’d been speaking to had been near to drooling over that young man’s body. He wasn’t sure if it was just because of a difference of station being overseen or a different, more perverse, outlook. He didn’t care to know either.

“That shot was taken no more than a foot from the victim,” Athos growled. Aramis held up a placating hand but listened to him anyway. “That means it wasn’t an accident but murder.”

“I know,” Aramis said as he pulled his rosary from under his coat. He kissed the metal cross and murmured a prayer under his breath as he pulled at Athos’ arm while he walked. “What’s gotten into you?”

“What do you mean?” Athos growled.

“You’ve been…off ever since…Since we told you about d’Art and that trinket.”

“I’m fine.”

“Then, you still don’t believe us?”

“There is no possible way for d’Art to be who he’s claimed to be,” Athos grumbled.

“This someone, the person you gave the trinket to I assume, is…dead?”

“It’s likely.”

“But unconfirmed?”

“What’s this about? We have a friend to clear of murder and you’re worried over something we talked about weeks ago?”

“Except we _didn’t_ talk about it weeks ago,” Aramis said. “We talked about it a few _days_ ago when you claimed you had a way to know for certain if d’Art was who we’d insinuated.”

“And?”

“And you’ve been looking at the boy as if questioning his existence ever since,” Aramis shot back through his teeth. “d’Art is a good friend to all of us, Athos. I will not allow you to run him off because I’m a loud mouthed drunk and Porthos is concerned.”

“If he’s that good a friend, it won’t matter,” Athos hissed.

“That’s not what I’m worried over Athos,” Aramis groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as he bowed his head.

“Then what is it that’s got you worried?”

Aramis halted, his face marred by a deep frown as he glared at Athos. The elder swallowed thickly as he waited for Aramis to reply.

“I’m worried over why d’Art would hide knowledge of you until one of us noticed the sigil on his trinket,” Aramis stated. “Also, why you don’t talk of Gascony anymore but that’s another matter, entirely.”

He shoved past Athos, muttering prayers against stupidity and stubbornness, leaving Athos staring morosely at the muddy road.

 _If only he knew_ , Athos thought as faded memories of a glowing smile and curious eyes flashed through his thoughts.

He wandered after Aramis in silence, his mind continuing to follow after d’Art and his safety. His hand fell back to the pocket at his breast where the chain and trinket sat against his own locket. He lifted it from his pocket, his eyes fixing themselves on the familiar trinket. It was as well cared for and shiny as he’d last seen it and the sigil gleamed against the silver of the casing in the circle of blue gemstones.

_If only you knew Aramis._


	28. Homecoming: Part 2

Flea had gotten prettier. Porthos had stared at her for a moment after she’d dropped her mask to the ground with her usual flare. He was shocked at the change in her clothes, all dark browns and reds rather than the sweet pastels he remembered. She joked about him not sending her a letter once in all the years he’d been gone. He joked back about how he’d learned to write though he didn’t know how she’d learned of the improvement.

The joking halted as she and Charon embraced in a one armed hug, her eyes betraying her sorrow while Charon’s looked proud. Porthos tried to brush it off, but Charon had pressed him that if he’d really wanted Flea, he should have taken her with him. He’d tried to but he couldn’t have sold her on leaving any more than Charon could have sold d’Art on talking about his scar.

Charon wouldn’t let him stay more than a night though. His remaining in the Court – murderer or not – was dangerous. Flea offered him a change of clothes after Charon left to deal with something outside.

“You forgot about us,” she said, her voice like air it was so wistful.

“I didn’t… _fit_ here,” he murmured as he tugged on the flowing cloak she’d found him behind a pillar. He wasn’t shy or anything it was just…he didn’t think he could face her in anything less than fully clothed. Not when she was seeing his best friend in less layers than he’d seen her in.

“Do you fit with _them_?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Porthos! Flea!” Charon called, his voice echoing off the stone walls as he skidded into the hall. A smile lit his dark face up as he dragged a hooded figure after him. “Look who found his way past the gate!”

He flipped the hood off the person’s head to reveal dark hair over an olive brow and dark chocolate eyes. He tugged the dark scarf from the young man’s nose to reveal the rest of his face, the smile growing larger as the newcomer glared at him. Flea squealed, leaping from her seat to sweep the newcomer into a tight hug filled with explosions of glee. Porthos stared.

“d’Art?”

* * *

Aramis had fallen silent alongside Athos as they trudged back to Tréville’s office after speaking to the coroner over the young man found near Porthos’ unexpected sleeping place. While the proceedings at the court house had been speedy – only a day to process Porthos where others for far worse crimes often took four months – things had struck him as overly biased against his friend.

The judge was known to prefer those of more noble births than those of other…origins. The man was an old white codger who thought himself over all because of his position in the hierarchy which, if one thought about it too heavily, found him rather lacking in grandeur. His court room was a shambling mess that creaked when everyone in it so much as twitched a finger. Aramis knew that the majority of the man’s cases tended to concern vagabonds and those not worthy of Porthos’ disapproving frowns.

He would have stewed over it had he been given a chance to but d’Art had gotten them the lead to the men who kidnapped – to hell with what the Cardinal claimed – Porthos by shooting one. He’d offered to go into the Court while also shoving Athos off on a different project with as much tact as could have been possible with the situation. The current atmosphere of Tréville’s office was almost suffocating past Athos’ frenzied pacing and Tréville’s flipping through documents in search of something they could use, the time piece they’d found on the body their only clue.

Aramis, meanwhile, watched them and calmed them with placating words and gestures of pushing his palms down as if that movement would push away their fears and anxiety. He didn’t have time to worry over how Porthos’ case had been handled with the company he kept.

Tréville managed to find what he’d been looking for on the De Mauvoisin family that had once been well off; one of the Great Families. The family wasn’t as rich as they used to be but the deceased boy’s father still had himself a spot with the King’s Court. He’d asked what the lad had been doing in the Ren when d’Art returned in a flurry of motion, tossing his beaten up cloak off his shoulders as if it were on fire and hissing oaths that would have made the Cardinal cross himself a hundred times.

Aramis sprang from his seat before Tréville’s desk, eyes wide with unbidden panic. He forced d’Art to still with firm hands on the young man’s shoulders and a low command for d’Art to slow his words. The boy shoved him away and continued swearing until Athos clipped the back of his head with a glove.

“What happened?” Athos asked as the boy rubbed his head with a frown.

“Found him,” d’Art said, Tréville groaning at the terse tone. “He’s fine.”

“He knows we’re going to clear his name, yes?” Aramis ventured. He knew his voice was betraying him but he found himself not caring.

“No,” d’Art snarled.

“Why not?” Tréville asked, his voice sounding of rolling gravel.

“Because an old friend of ours was too busy speaking of how he thought we abandoned Porthos,” the boy growled. Aramis sighed and ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

“He worked the hardest out of all of us to become what he is now,” Aramis said. “Surely a friend can’t persuade him _that_ easily?”

D’Art only snorted, ripping at his scarf as he flew back into his oaths. Aramis did not miss the sharp intake of air from Tréville as the jagged scar was revealed in the smoky light of the office. The Captain waited out the expletives and d’Art’s changing back into his leather jacket and weaponry before ordering them all to look into what company the deceased kept.

Though, he did make sure to wrap d’Art’s scarf back into its rightful place before they left.

* * *

Porthos was sitting at a table with Flea and Charon after d’Art had left in his usual fashion – disappearing into the dim like a wraith. D’Art’s stay had been somewhat brief, his eyes never on Charon or Flea as he’d all but glued himself to Porthos’ arm. Charon and Flea had asked where he’d been the last two years only to get the cryptic response of ‘traveling’ from the young man. D’Art hadn’t seen them since he’d left and no one in the Court save for Radha and Charlotte had known he was back in Paris. And those two hadn’t told anyone else.

Trying to not think too far into the implications of d’Art’s actions, Porthos let himself mull over his situation. He questioned the possibility of having killed the young man outside the Ren which earned him a sarcastic remark on not remembering his kills from Flea. Charon insisted on getting him out of Paris to avoid his being hung. Porthos sighed.

“I’m grateful,” he said. “But…maybe I should stay; clear my name.”

“Too risky,” Flea said, her eyes cold. “For you. For us…unless, you don’t care about this place, or its people anymore?” They leveled each other with equally calm eyes for a moment before Porthos caved, shaking his head. Charon chuckled.

“You always did as Flea asked of you,” he snickered, though Porthos had to fight to ignore the smile not reaching his old friend’s eyes.

“Except when I begged him to stay,” she muttered. Porthos ducked his head, unwilling to look into the disapproval any more than he already had. Her chair scrapped against the floor as she stood, heels clicking as she left him with Charon.

“I’ll go,” he acquiesced.

“I’ve ordered a celebration be held tomorrow,” Charon said in a whisper. “It’ll be a good cover for you slip away and it will liven everyone’s spirits.”

Porthos nodded as they shared a drink. He’d have to apologize to d’Artagnan later.

* * *

D’Art did not much care for Jean De Mauvoisin’s father. There had been a stilted delivery of the man’s despair that left his stomach turning much the same way seeing Charon again did. He’d left the timepiece on the man’s desk none the less. A parent could grieve for their child however they wished and it wasn’t his place to judge a man he didn’t know.

Not in the current situation.

Charon wouldn’t keep Porthos in France for more than a night. He could see the reasoning; it was dangerous to hold a newly condemned man in the Court for that long. Especially when the man was running for murder or a fallen rich family.

Jean’s apartment was a bit down scaled in comparison to his father’s home but considering the family was running low on funds, it was probably what many would consider comfortable. Borrowed money could only get them so far after all. When the key Athos and Aramis had found didn’t unlock the door, Aramis had been prepared to shoot the door open. D’Art stopped him by slapping his hand away from his pistol.

“What?” Aramis asked, hands out to his side and eyes complaining of unfairness.

“You could try knocking,” Athos mumbled with a sly smirk.

“True,” Aramis shrugged. “It’s no fun though.”

The lock clicked open and both men’s heads jerked to stare down at d’Art as he inched the door open with his fingertips. He stood from where he knelt, his other hand slipping a roll of leather into a pocket hidden in his jacket sleeve, his toe bumping the door open. Athos caught his shoulder as d’Art leaned into the room.

“Yes?” d’Art asked, his eyes shifting nervously as Athos leaned his bearded face into d’Art’s personal space.

“What just happened?” Aramis asked, his body pressing up against d’Art’s back as he leaned into the doorway. His hat was in his hand, pressed against his chest, and the feather tickled d’Art’s ear.

“I picked the lock,” d’Artagnan muttered as he pushed Athos and Aramis out of his way and stumbled into the room. “Big deal.”

They entered the room in silence to find it in shambles. There was a smoker full of singed documents in front of the door, chairs strewn about the room, and more singed papers littering the floor. D’Art wandered into a room as Athos lifted smoking papers from the smoker. He was rifling through a pile of strewn documents when a shot rang out in the apartment, wood splintering as the shot found a door jamb.

He joined Aramis and Athos at the window overlooking the street, a man in a hood disappearing into the alleyways across from the apartment, sighing as Aramis stowed his pistol.

“Should have knocked I guess,” he mumbled.

“Possibly,” Aramis agreed, turning back to the rooms. They returned to their searching, Athos quiet throughout the procedure.

“Whoever he was,” Aramis said after an hour or so of rifling through drawers and cabinets, “he was keen to cover his tracks.” He shifted the burnt papers in his hands as he spoke, a frown growing on his face and pulling his mustache down with it. “I can’t read these they’re so singed.”

“There’s a page from a Protestant hymnal here,” Athos said as he held out the page.

“What would a Catholic want with that?” Aramis asked skeptically as he glared at the offending page. D’Art continued shuffling through what he’d found in the small cabinet he was kneeling in front of before he spoke.

“Never mind that,” he said, his voice raspy from what he would call overuse. “What would he want with six hundred pounds of gunpowder?” He stood to show Athos, ignoring the raised brow on Aramis’ face as he did so. “Bought three weeks ago, from a mill outside of Paris. There’s his signature.” He pointed at the scrawl as he handed the page over.

Aramis read from a piece of paper what he could then, revealing the name of a preacher d’Art had heard rumors on. Athos theorized that, since Jean’s father was known for his dislike of Protestants, it was possible the boy was a radical and planned to destroy the preacher’s church.

“People have done worse in the name or Religion,” Aramis sighed as he sauntered out.

* * *

Porthos was drunk when Charlotte managed to worm her way into Charon’s quarters. He and Charon were laughing about the old days, when Porthos had been a thief. Charon called him the best thief of the Court, claiming Porthos had enjoyed those days. Porthos, to her relief, sounded unsure about his enjoyment of the times he’d stolen from others.

“The thrill, the danger,” Porthos chuckled with a wobbling nod. “The brotherhood,” he added with a sighed whisper. “And then, I found those things somewhere else. A brotherhood with honor.”

“No honor amongst thieves then?” Charon asked.

“Not what I meant.”

“Your Musketeer brothers,” Charon inquired. “Where are they? And where were they at the Chantelle this morning?”

Charlotte glared from her hiding place, knowing where this would end up leading. Charon wasn’t the same man she’d remembered him to be when Porthos was around. He’d taken to being alone or disappearing without notice. The old Father had started praying for his soul out of worry.

She watched as Porthos shook his head, trying to insist that he could trust his friends in few words. Charon only scoffed.

“You believe that, if it makes you happy.”

Porthos fell silent for a moment, his body swaying with drink. A frown spread over his face, his mustache pulled by its force as he swayed to his feet, his stool falling over with a clatter.

“What’s wrong?” Charon asked as Porthos wobbled away from the table, a hand over his scrunched eyes.

“I remembered,” Porthos panted. “Something form last night.” He pressed his hands to the table top to catch his unbalanced weight as he panted through the memory. “The boy…the one who I…who was killed, he was _there_. At the Ren. I saw him.”

Charlotte’s heart fluttered, tears stinging her eyes as she watched. Porthos was remembering but it didn’t seem to help his situation much. He’d seen this boy she and Radha had heard of him – possibly – shooting but he couldn’t remember if he’d killed him or not. She also didn’t like the flash of panic that filtered through Charon’s eyes at the news.

“He was…arguing with someone,” Porthos continued.

“ _Who_?” Charon asked. Porthos continued panting, his arms bending him towards and away from the table top until he gave a frustrated roar through gritted teeth, a fist pounding on the table.

Charlotte took the opportunity to leave then. She’d have to tell Radha who would, in turn, make sure d’Art heard of this development. Radha didn’t keep anything from d’Art, even though he tended to keep things from her.

_“He’s got a reason,” Radha sighed as she dipped her bare feet into the cool spring they’d found just outside of the city._

_“A reason for leaving without saying anything?” Charlotte screeched, her arms waving about as she clawed at her braids, her clothes, the air. “We looked all over for two days for his ungrateful self instead of doing what we should have been doing because of that!”_

_“d’Art has his reasons,” Radha stated as she kicked her feet over the water’s surface._

_“Did he talk to you?” Charlotte growled, jealous of the possibility._

_Radha seemed to have become d’Art’s right arm over the last couple years. He seemed to talk to her more than anyone, seemed to let her touch him more than he let Flea, and seemed to gaze at her differently than anyone else._

_Radha shook her head, a small smile twitching the corners of her mouth up. Charlotte scoffed, throwing her arms in the air in annoyance and disbelief._

_“He didn’t talk to anyone then?!” she cried, kicking stones into the city wall they’d climbed over to get to the spring. A rock sailed through the ‘U’ shaped opening they’d clambered through, cracking against the wood of a shuttered window a moment later._

_“No,” Radha sighed. “But, d’Art hardly talks to anyone so it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise.”_

_She rose from the fallen tree she’d sat down on, her feet pale against the dark black of the bark. Her boots and stockings were gathered in her hands, a boot and stocking each. Her arms were out to the sides as she navigated over the tree, toe to heel, toe to heel. She hopped down from the tree, river stones clicking under her weight._

_“He’ll come back though,” she said._

_“How do you know?”_

_She smiled. “Because I trust he’ll come back.”_

_“How can you possibly trust in that?”_

_Radha smiled wider as she pulled on her torn stockings and worn boots. “Because I trust d’Art.”_

Charlotte shook her head of the cobwebbed memory before she hooked her hood over her braided hair. She had to find Radha. Time was running out.

She got to the bottom of the stairs when she tripped. Groaning, cursed her luck as she turned to find what she’d tripped over. She gasped at the sight of Charon’s guards lying dead at their posts, a hand flying over her mouth as she stifled a scream.


	29. Homecoming: Part 3

“Maybe you don’t want to remember,” Charon suggested. “If you did kill that boy–.”

“Flea’s _right_!” Porthos yelled, tired of the shell game his mind was playing on him “I would _remember_! No matter how much I drank!”

It happened fast. Porthos happened to look out the side of his eye just in time to catch the masked man at the door lifting a long barreled pistol. He grabbed Charon, shoving him to the floor as the pistol went off. He wasn’t quite fast enough as the musket ball tore into Charon’s shoulder. A second later, he was tossing a knife into a barrel as the man ran off.

“It’s nothing!” Charon insisted as he huffed through his new injury.

“Why would someone want to kill you?” Porthos asked.

“How do you know he was aiming at me?” Charon shot back.

Porthos glared at the door where their attacker had run off through. Charon had a point; he couldn’t be sure if the gunman had been aiming at Charon or just had pathetic aim.

* * *

“Religion without art is so much less…seductive,” Aramis whispered as he stared at the plain walls of the church he and d’Art stood in. The simple glass of the windows allowed in nothing but gray light which made the rest of the white walls glow with an almost blinding glare. It reminded him of a church from a long time ago. One he hoped to never set foot in again should he be able to avoid it.

“In this church we worship God. Not beauty,” the Protestant Pastor Ferrand grumbled behind them. His face was stern as he glared at them, a scar lining his right eye. D’Art remained silent.

“The Catholic faith allows us all a little bit of joy before we die,” Aramis quipped.

“We Protestants will have joy eternal at God’s right hand,” Ferrand shot back. “While you–.”

“Roast in Satan’s inferno?” Aramis interrupted, his face calm as he went about ripping the Pastor’s words apart without actually doing it.

“As all benighted heretics must.”

Aramis smiled and pointed at the broken windows where the pigeons were entering through. “Surely even you all believe in windows?”

“We removed the stained glass. We don’t have the money to replace it,” Ferrand grumbled. “The collection plate is behind me, should you wish to make a contribution.”

Aramis chuckled as d’Art looked over papers in the unguarded sanctuary section of the church. He pointed at his own face as he asked where Ferran had served. Too many hellholes apparently and Aramis could concur with the statement. There was no such thing as beauty in battle. Aramis asked if the man killed Catholics to find Ferran hadn’t done so specifically; he’d fought for money.

“And then you found God,” Aramis quipped, his arms out to his sides to show off the bare church again.

“He found me.”

“Did you know Jean De Mauvoisin?” d’Art asked. Ferran faltered then, his mouth opening and closing as d’Art stared him down. The boy nodded in understanding. “He’s dead.”

“The poor boy. I will pray for his soul,” he assured. “How, may I ask, did he die?”

“He was shot,” d’Art stated. “Did you kill him?”

Aramis glanced at d’Artagnan, a questioning brow lifted. The young man gazed at him levelly, his head kicking towards the papers he’d set down in the sanctuary.

“Why would I do such a thing?”

“Maybe because he was a Catholic who intended to blow your Protestant church to kingdom come,” d’Art stated, his brown eyes fixed on Ferran.

Aramis understood then. He was gauging the man’s reaction for truth as well as for something else. The young man didn’t seem to believe what was happening and was getting to the truth in his own fashion. Aramis nearly applauded him.

Ferran breathed out a scoff that fell into light laughter.

“And why is that funny?” d’Art asked.

“Jean was _not_ a Catholic,” Ferran stated. “He was a committed member of _this_ congregation.”

Aramis frowned. “His father’s a prominent Catholic who hates Protestants and urges the King to act against them.”

“Monsieur De Mauvoisin only converted to Catholicism to win favor in Court,” Ferran said. “Before him, the family was Protestant for generations. Jean found he couldn’t sell his conscious as easily as his father did.”

He left in silence after his speech. Aramis dropped a couple coins into the flat collection plate as they left.

“Not telling us something?” d’Art asked.

“I believe so,” Aramis sighed as he shoved his hat onto his head. “I almost expected him to tear your head off when he entered.”

“He may remember me from a few years ago,” d’Art shrugged.

“Oh?” Aramis chuckled. “Why’s that?”

“I stole some food off his kitchen window.”

Aramis gaped at him. “You _what_?”

“It was winter, the Little Ones were starving and cold. I got them food.”

“I thought…” He trailed off, his hand pushing his hat back as he scratched his brow in amazement.

“Thought what? That I only go after information?”

“Yes!”

“That’s only what I specialize in, Aramis,” d’Art sighed with a shaking head. “Everyone in the Court of Miracles knows a few trades.”

“What about Porthos’ saying kids stayed to safer activities?” Aramis asked, the horror evident in his voice.

“Information gathering just as dangerous, I assure you,” d’Artagnan murmured. “And stealing from an old man who wouldn’t pay it any mind as long the food was going to something worthwhile is far less dangerous than stealing in front of a Red Guard.”

“You’ve done _what_?”

“Aramis…Really? You think so highly of me you can’t see I’m just as bad as Porthos?”

“Neither one of you is bad, d’Artagnan,” Aramis hissed, pulling the boy’s arm so he was flush with his side. “Remember that.”

“And yet, my eldest brother can’t even recognize me.”

Aramis scowled. “Athos is a stubborn idiot. You know that.” The boy shrugged him off though, Aramis let him. He wasn’t about to force d’Artagnan to look at him when he was worrying over something in his head.

“Look,” Aramis sighed. “Athos admitted something to Porthos and I before all this happened.” The boy looked at him with curious brown eyes. “He said if you’re really are who we’ve claimed you to be…he has his ways to prove it.”

D’Artagnan nodded, chewing at his upper lip. “He didn’t give them though,” he murmured. Aramis shook his head.

“I think he doesn’t want us giving you too much of a head’s up,” he sighed.

“Sounds like him.”

“Doesn’t it just?”

* * *

De Mauvoisin was praying over his son’s body in his lavish chapel when Athos returned to the villa. The man mumbled about the difficulty of watching a son die before a father, how he’d hoped Jean would bring greatness back to the family. Athos showed him the license to purchase gun powder only to be asked what Jean was involved in by De Mauvoisin.

“It’s possible he was plotting to attack Catholics with Protestant fanatics,” Athos murmured.

De Mauvoisin looked aptly horrified, exclaiming that he’d warned Jean to break away from Ferran and his ‘nest of vipers’ to no avail.

“Perhaps he had second thoughts? Broke with the other plotters?” Athos asked.

“Whatever my son did, I forgive him,” De Mauvoisin stated.

Athos let him return to his prayers, standing in the chapel in silence as he thought over the situation. None of it made sense. Jean De Mauvoisin was dead, Porthos possibly framed for the deed, and now Religion was beginning to play a part in things.

Athos had found through experience that Religion tended to make things messy. Many lives had been taken in the name of it as well as other atrocities. No one seemed capable of understanding that they were all praying to the same deity either. Athos, himself, had given up on asking God to do him favors when he’d seen a burnt out house in Lupiac.

No ‘loving’ god would have allowed such things to be done in their name.

* * *

Flea was a bit horrified that Porthos’ hands were steady as he carved the musket ball out of Charon’s shoulder with a knife. His statement of being an old hand at such duties worried her further. When Court members got shot, they tended to go to doctors they’d all bribed to be quiet. Porthos’ deft movements and barely any flinch at Charon’s yelling in pain as the knife slid in and out of the wound however, spoke to his words being true.

D’Art hung around Porthos. She’d known that for years, glad that the two remained close enough to speak. Even if it was only to one another. She hadn’t known the full extent of the contact other than it had been present. D’Art didn’t talk about what he and Porthos did or if he’d seen Porthos. She’d just known from the lightness in the boy’s feet, the brilliant smile being just a bit more genuine, and the glow of glee in his chocolate eyes.

Where d’Art had gotten into a few scrapes in his time with them, she’d expected as much. Dealing in information wasn’t always safe and d’Art was one of the best in the trade. He was rarely harmed in his information dealings but, like all of the other young ones Flea had helped raise, d’Art had had a few scrapes because he’d had to do a few things she wasn’t proud to say he’d done. Getting food for the children, getting blankets, getting a weapon or two for protection purposes…No, she wasn’t proud of what the Court had turned d’Art into.

Yet, he’d remained that sweet boy she remembered and loved and she was sure it was because of those moments with Porthos he’d secreted away that had protected him.

“Let’s say you’re right and that shot was meant for me,” Porthos muttered as he loomed over Charon. “Who would go through the trouble?”

“The Cardinal,” Charon ground out through the pain. “He’s the grand leech of the Church so he sent a trained killer.”

“A shooter in some low dive in the worst part of Paris? It doesn’t add up.” Porthos smiled as he held up the lead ball then. “Got it.”

She left him to bandage the wound, leaning against a wall outside. She’d found Charlotte earlier, the poor girl screaming through hysterical tears about the guards being dead. That was when she’d rushed to fine if Charon and Porthos were alright. She hadn’t seen where Charlotte had gone after she’d rushed off. She hoped the girl was alright.

Charlotte and Radha were another worry she had swimming in her mind. They would have known if d’Art had come back but they hadn’t said anything about him returning. Either they hadn’t seen him or they’d been hiding things from them. She couldn’t see them hiding it unless d’Art has asked them though so that left her wondering why he’d want no one else to know about his returning to Paris. She knew that Charon and d’Art had stopped speaking at one point but she couldn’t remember it being serious enough to warrant d’Art’s wish to not tell anyone he’d returned from…wherever he’d gone.

When Porthos came out, wiping his hands dry from his work, she watched him with confused eyes. She wanted to ask him if he’d seen d’Art before today – his tone having given her an inclination to believe he had – but something different came out of her mouth.

“Why did you abandon us Porthos?”

“I wanted more,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “Why didn’t you come with me?”

“I’ve felt right here. I belong,” she said. “It wasn’t like that for you…I saw it. So I let you go because I loved you.”

“ _Me_? You chose Charon.”

“He feels that same as I for this place and I _admire_ him for that,” she shot back.

“Admire? Ah,” Porthos said skeptically. “Thought you loved him.”

“One thing I forgot was what an idiot you were,” she hissed, stepping into his space. It took only a second for her to get onto her toes – when had he gotten so tall? – and press her lips to his. It was natural too.

As his hands hesitated around her waist, she thought of all her questions on d’Art, on Charlotte and Radha, and on Porthos. They could wait.

* * *

The church was dark, a pale glow flowing through the windows above their heads. D’Art led the way in, his boots thumping against the unprotected wood flooring. Athos, who had not seen the church, was a bit surprised at the lack of ornamentation. The seats were simple benches that a tavern would have used had they not looked so flimsy. Aramis was stone faced as they marched through to the door on the side wall. D’Art rattled the door; locked.

“Try that key again,” Athos stated. D’Art rolled his eyes before dropping to a knee. The lock cracked and clunked but Athos was more interested in d’Art’s expression. He knew the key worked the instant d’Art’s dark eyes rose back to him, brows hiding in his bangs, and head cocking to his shoulder as if to say ‘ _What do you know?_ ’

“Stairs,” Aramis sighed, shoving his hat down on his head. “Dark. Stairs.”

“Naturally,” d’Art grumbled as he slipped through the door. He came back with a smirk on his face. “Someone forgot their lanterns.” Aramis smiled, his arms lifting his hands palms up to the ceiling as he mouthed his thanks.

The walk down the steps was quiet past the thudding of the steps under their boots. The lanterns did little to lighten the space but the flicker of a small flame did wonders for Athos as he descended into a stone walled chamber. Stings with papers hung overhead while tables were scattered about the room. Barrels lined a wall by the tens.

“A bomb making factory?” d’Art asked.

“No,” Aramis said as he handled a wheeled device that was attached to a strange looking table with an inset and gearing. “It’s a printing press.” He strode over to the barrels and yanked a stopper free. Black liquid burbled onto their boots and the floor. “Ink,” Aramis confirmed.

Athos snorted. “Not this one.”

“There’s the gunpowder,” d’Art murmured as the fine powder shifted onto the floor.

“What are you doing here?” a voice yelled. Aramis was the first with his sword out as he turned to face a man in preacher’s clothes. The sword in the man’s hand however dragged Athos’ eyes more than the sack in his other hand.

“There are three of us Preacher,” he ground out.

“Then you’re outnumbered,” Ferrand growled back. “God is on my side.”

“I hope he’s good with a sword,” d’Art quipped, skepticism coating his voice like a varnish.

“You lied to us,” Aramis snarled.

“Unwise,” d’Art hissed, a hand at his mouth as if revealing a secret.

“You in on the conspiracy,” Aramis continued, his voice getting soft.

“Conspiracy? I keep in touch with my congregation by means of this printing press!”

Athos pointed at the barrels of powder. “Do you use gunpowder over ink?”

Ferrand stared at them in shock for a moment until d’Art finally got annoyed, muttering they should continue the conversation upstairs. They sat Ferrand on one of his backless benches, watching as he rubbed his hands together in his lap.

“My church has nothing to do with it,” he insisted. “I preach reconciliation.”

“Someone wanted to blow up your church, probably during a service,” Athos stated.

“Could Jean have lied about his beliefs?” Aramis asked. Ferrand shook his head.

“Jean wasn’t a turncoat. He was a gentle, softhearted boy.”

Athos showed him to the order slip for the gunpowder then, asking about it. He was tired and was annoyed with having gotten almost nowhere in this investigation. All he had was the gnawing feeling that Porthos could have killed that boy and more questions on d’Art. He couldn’t reconcile the young man who could pick locks, had stolen food to survive, and stood off to the side like a silent judge with the tiny child in Gascony. Even when he considered the idea of living on the streets being the reason for his complete disconnect, he still couldn’t quite get d’Art and Charles to fit as the same person.

Ferrand snatched the slip from Athos’ hands and looked it over. He snorted after a moment, his head shaking as if in disbelief.

“This is Jean’s name. It’s not his handwriting…It’s his _father’s_.”

 _Well damn it all_ , Athos thought as he turned to leave.

“Before you go,” Ferrand called. Athos turned and found the man glaring at d’Art.

“What?” he snarled.

D’Art gave him a questioning look which he ignored as he moved in front of the young man. He pointedly ignored Aramis’ small smirk as well. He liked d’Art and he’d made a promise to avoid situations that would get the boy harmed like he had been with Vadim months ago. Aramis didn’t really have a right to poke fun at him for it either.

Ferrand raised a brow in interest at the action but leaned to the side so he was looking at d’Art again.

“Did that bread and sausage you stole from me feed you well?” There was a sneer in his voice.

D’Art snorted. “No, but they fed the seven-year-olds and five-year-olds fairly well that winter,” he shot back with his own little smirk. “Oh, and the blankets kept them quite warm as well; in case you were wondering.”

Ferrand blinked at his retreating back with a gaped mouth. “You stole to feed _children_?!”

“Damn near starved myself in the process,” d’Art called over his shoulder. He leaned against the doorjamb, lips curled in a smile. “If you’re done questioning me, we need to be going.”


	30. Homecoming: Part 4

Flea had learned a few tricks since he’d been gone. Porthos could not remember the last time a woman stripped him so…efficiently. He barely even remembered leaving the corridor before he’d toppled her back onto a bed. He wasn’t sure how they’d gotten under the covers either but he wouldn’t be surprised if it had happened in the blur of his clothing joining hers on the floor.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked as they lay in the orange glow of the candlelight. Her back was pressed against his chest and his arm was wrapped around her body so his hands was clasped in hers. Her shoulder bumped his chin as she shrugged.

“It would have made a difference?” she asked. “Even back then, you and I walked different paths.”

“Then what’s all this? Nostalgia?”

She smiled and pressed her lips to his in sweet caress of what he swore was the honey and grapes they used to steal from the markets together. He was almost ashamed he’d grown a mustache and beard when it scratched against her nose.

“Charon can’t know about this,” she whispered.

_Well there goes the nostalgia_ , he thought as he sighed.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” she amended.

He grunted as he nodded in quiet understanding. He could understand. He didn’t want to hurt Charon either but…dear lord this felt _good_. He wasn’t like Aramis. He couldn’t just bounce from woman to woman without attempting some form of interest; of forming an attachment. He held his feelings close to his breast and hoped they would treat him right while Aramis just tossed them around and reeled in what they caught interest in. At least Athos had bottled his up rather than tossing them aside completely. The man’s reaction to d’Art was proof of that.

Flea moved from the bed and they joked about her warning about where he could put his eyes. He offered to show her the world again. He even complemented her brains.

“If I’m so smart,” she muttered, “what am I doing here with you?”

“Hopefully getting dressed?” a soft voice chimed. Porthos bolted into a sitting position as Flea yelped, the blankets she’d used for modesty fluttering away from her bare legs.

“d’Artagnan!” Porthos groaned as they young man rubbed at the back of his head with an amused smirk on his face.

“About time Port,” d’Art snickered. He glanced at Flea for a moment, his eyes shifting down her body in a clinical fashion. He shrugged and turned his attentions back to Porthos.

“I know I taught you better manners than that, young man,” Flea sneered as she ducked behind a screen to change.

“Maybe I prefer men?” d’Art suggested.

“Never seen you with one.”

“Maybe I’m disinterested all around then.”

“I _know_ for a _fact_ you aren’t a eunuch,” she laughed.

Porthos groaned as he rose, his hands grasping at his fallen clothes. As he reached for his shirt, a hand holding his pants in place, a cup was shoved in his face.

“That smells awful,” he muttered, his hand flying to his nose as d’Art frowned at him.

“I’m told it’s supposed to. Drink.”

“Not a chance in hell.”

“It’s supposed to help with memory loss and Radha had to call in quite a few favors to get it,” d’Artagnan explained, his hand pressing the cup closer to Porthos’ face. “Drink or I’ll tell her to help me make you drink it.”

“Limey little,” Porthos muttered as Flea giggled at him from the door. He tossed his shirt onto the bed and gulped the sour and biter brew down. “Smells awful. Tastes worse. What a waste.”

“Get some rest Port,” d’Art sighed. “We’re making headway on your innocence but in case we don’t manage it, you may as well rest for your leaving.”

“How are those two?”

“Stressed,” d’Art shrugged. “Not surprising though. Sleep. It works better if you sleep.”

“It ain’t gonna work, kid.”

“Don’t doubt Radha’s sources.”

* * *

Porthos was never doubting Radha again.

The girl could give him any sort of foul smelling, piss pour tasting concoction she deemed fit for a job and he’d bloody damned well take it. His memory was coming back. It was there, right within reach. It was still fuzzy about the edges but he knew now he’d found the boy already dead, a man standing over him in the rain. He hadn’t killed that boy.

But…the memory wasn’t clear. There was something still missing from it.

“Need more of that…stuff,” he mumbled under his breath as he stumbled from the bed.

He glared at the sunlight shining into the room. He’d slept through the night. The noise downstairs made him question how but he ignored that for the moment.

D’Artagnan. That boy truly was a marvel having gone through all the trouble of having Radha look for something to help someone she didn’t see in the same light as she saw d’Art. The boy had lived on the streets as long as Porthos had and he’d still remained as caring as Porthos remembered.

Yet, he’d been gone for two years with no word as to where he was going and he hadn’t told Flea or Charon of his return. Porthos had noted that d’Art had probably only talked to Porthos again because he was looking for Athos thanks to those highway robbers.

It didn’t make sense though. Everyone in the Regiment knew d’Art talked to Radha and Charlotte after the kidnapped child and Therron’s arrest. Everyone trusted the boy after Vadim. Tréville had even pulled Porthos aside recently to ask if it was at all possible that d’Art would want to join the Musketeers.

And bullheaded tendencies aside, even Athos liked the boy to a degree. He may not have agreed with Porthos and Aramis’ admitting of who d’Art could truly be but he hadn’t yelled at the boy for trying to play him for a fool. He was giving the boy a chance to prove them right in his own, idiot, way for god’s sake.

Why hadn’t he talked to Charon and Flea?

“Oh, that little–!”

* * *

“This is good stuff,” Flea said, her voice louder than she wanted thanks to the raucous about her.

Of course Charon had gone ahead with his plan to feast. The place was almost rattling thanks to the somewhat unexpected turnout and Flea was never really one for crowds. Crowds were something one was to disappear into, not thrive in.

In her hands was a stout bottle of wine, a lovely scrawl of letters over the pale brown label. This was wine she knew – from hard learned lessons – one did not come about easily. If one wanted to steal it, he had to be good and had to know where to find the bottles months ahead of time. Buying it wasn’t much of an option either. Not under such a time constraint as a single day.

“It must have cost a fortune,” she called over the noise again.

Charon snorted at her, as if he didn’t grasp why she was so peeved at the sight of such a bottle in the Court. She frowned at him. It wasn’t enough that Porthos had been brought back into their lives but the act had been done under such worrisome circumstances. Her feelings for Porthos hadn’t wavered – though she’d wished they had – and standing before Charon so soon after she’d washed away the coupling was doing nothing for her nerves.

And now, there were crates of expensive wine in the Court with no real reason for being there past Charon’s claim of ‘friends’ bringing it.

“Where’s Porthos?” he asked.

Her mind went blank, fearing that Charon had noticed despite her scrubbing. Or maybe it was because of her scrubbing. She stammered out an answer she wasn’t sure passed muster and watched as Charon poked at her with words that shouldn’t have had the barbs they did. Much to catch up on indeed. She barely had time to register Charon dragging her from the chambers until she was tripping over her feathery skirt as he shoved her into their rooms.

“Pack a bag,” he growled. “We’re leaving.”

“Are you _drunk_?” she yelled, shoving Charon away from her. “It’s _Porthos_ who’s leaving.” She couldn’t ignore the bitter quality of her voice as Charon snatched at her arm.

“You going with him? Is that what you were planning in bed last night?”

“It’s not what you think,” she tried, her hands gripping his collar as he shoved her bodily towards the wall.

“I save him…for _this_ ,” Charon hissed. “For him to steal you from me?”

“I don’t belong to him or you!”

“Yeah but the Court is finished! By tomorrow, it’ll be nothing but a pile of ashes.”

_What?_

“Trust me, Flea. We need to go. Now.”

The step of the room creaked then and Flea found her neck almost unable to move to stare at Porthos.

“You need to see this…Both of you.”

* * *

D’Art had disappeared on them as soon as he’d stepped foot out of Pastor Ferran’s church and Athos was irritated that the situation even surprised him. Instead, he and Aramis had gone to Tréville to explain what they’d found so far. D’Art was probably off to tell Porthos the news anyway.

Tréville had seemed more than happy to leave his office for a while, even if it was only to comb through De Mauvoisin’s papers. Athos was a bit horrified to find that the man had been buying up land in the Court – pittance or no – when he was nearly broke. Also, there was little doubt in Athos’ mind that the man hated anything to do with the Court. Very few of the wealthy cared for those who lived in the Court. Tréville was right about the paper value though; if the Court weren’t there, the land would be worth a fortune.

De Mauvoisin admitted it as soon as he entered the room. He called it a wise investment before telling them their search was illegal. Threatening to call the Cardinal however, wore on Athos’ thin patience and he jumped right into questioning who had signed the document for the gunpowder. He didn’t have a license to buy the powder and his admitting to doing so meant he was to be charged with crimes only punishable by death. It was a bit of a surprise when De Mauvoisin outright admitted to buying the powder in his son’s name.

It wasn’t about religion. It was over greed. Aramis was the one who mentioned that it would have been impossible for someone to move that much gunpowder in without being seen, suggesting an insider. The Court was suddenly far more dangerous that Athos could have imagined. De Mauvoisin’s ‘warning’ of midday didn’t fall flat either.

“They’ll be alright,” Aramis yelled as they raced for the gates, pistols in hand and a hand steadying their swords as they ran. “It’s Porthos and d’Art!”

“That’s what I’m worried about!”

* * *

“d’Art,” Porthos breathed as he spread his arms out for the boy. He wrapped him into a tight embrace, relief filling him at the smell of old leather and polishing oil. “You’re back.”

“Had news but…” he waved at the pile of barrels before them. “I think you figured part of it out already.”

“Gunpowder?” Flea gasped.

“Yeah,” Porthos sighed. “The fuses are primed too. Someone’s going to blow this place to hell.”

“The Cardinal?” she asked. D’Art snorted as Porthos mumbled a tentative ‘maybe’. “There are hundreds of people living here! Women, children.”

“There’s something else,” Porthos muttered as he turned to Charon. “I didn’t kill that boy. He was dead when I left the Ren, his killer standing over him. An old man; one that if I find, I can clear my name. I can’t leave now.”

He glanced to Flea, looping his arms over d’Art’s head to free the boy of his grip. “Let’s cut these fuses, make them safe.”

He was kneeling when the click of a pistol’s hammer being drawn back. Charon’s voice growled at them as d’Art drew his own gun, the hammer dropped God only knew how long ago.

“Charon?” Flea asked, her eyes darting to d’Art who held his weapon steady at Charon’s head, his body falling between Charon’s gun and Porthos’ body in an unearthly silence.

“Wrong place at the wrong time,” Charon whispered, his confession flowing out after those words. Porthos glared, his hand on d’Art’s back as he tried to edge the boy out of the line of fire. He didn’t care about the old man or the boy he’d been blamed for killing anymore. He was mad at his own friend admitting to blaming him.

“Why save me from the noose then?”

“We ran these streets together. Brotherhood and loyalty are the only things that don’t get complicated or compromised anymore…I couldn’t leave you to hang.”

“What’s the gun powder got to do with anything then?” Flea asked.

“The old man,” d’Art hissed. “De Mauvoisin was it?” Charon stared at him with wide eyes for a moment before he smiled ruefully.

“Only you d’Art,” Charon chuckled. “A day and you already know him.”

“I didn’t know he killed his son,” d’Art snarled, his body not moving despite Porthos’ firm hand. It was like he was a statue. “I do know that he signed for the gunpowder in his son’s name though, I still have yet to learn _why_.”

Charon sobered a bit, his face serious again. “The old man bought up the land, paid me to smuggle in the powder. There’s far more than that pile though; lots more.”

“You’re going to blow this place up?!” Porthos roared.

“I deserve better!” Charon cried. “Just a bit of money and a fair chance like everyone else!”

“This is our home!” Flea screamed.

“And I’m sick of it! The dirt, the disease, the _poverty_! Human beings in filth, rooting about like _animals_!” Charon screamed back.

“They’re poor!” Flea cried. “That’s all!”

Charon leveled the gun at her, screaming the end of the Court whilst admitting he didn’t want Flea to stay there. He begged her to join him, to leave with him.

“If you love me, don’t do this,” she whispered.

He took a breath and slid the gun over to Porthos. The barrel wavered over d’Art’s head thanks to Charon’s uneasy hand. Porthos’ heart stopped for a second as his mind helpfully supplied the image of Charon hitting d’Art instead. Uneasy minds made for sloppy shooting. That was what Aramis had said to him, to d’Art. The young man didn’t move other than straightening his back and swinging his free arm up to make himself a larger target.

“Move d’Art,” Charon hissed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Too late,” d’Art hissed back. “And if you keep this up, she’ll never choose you.”

“She’s always loved him!” Charon yelled. “I was just the one that was left!”

Porthos managed to see Charon’s finger twitch before he saw Flea move. The pistol went off, her shoulder exploding with red and freed fabric, and she screamed. It was a slow fall, Porthos thinking he was in mud as he jumped to her side. His hand fell on her bleeding shoulder as d’Art stared down at them with horrified eyes. Charon remained for a moment before he turned and ran, d’Art on his heels like a bat out of hell.

“Go,” Flea whispered.

“CHARON!”

* * *

Aramis had one again taken down most of the men with his straight aiming and he found himself trailing after Athos’ growling form down an alleyway. He watched from a ways back as Athos fought a torch bearing man before an injured woman with blonde hair. The fight was quick, the man untrained and pathetic in battle.

The torch, however, seemed to have a mind of its own. It leapt from the man’s hand when Athos managed a sharp jab to the man’s stomach. It tumbled towards the primed fuses with hollow thunks as it bounced. The young woman in the corridor let out a shocked screech as it got closer to the barrels.

Aramis was down the corridor in a flash, hands ripping cloth from the walls and dumping it into a bucket of water as he rushed. He all but threw the cloth onto the torch as Athos glared at the man he’d felled. Aramis glanced over his shoulder long enough to recognize De Mauvoisin’s head servant at Athos’ feet.

“Are you alright?” he asked the woman before him, his eyes sweeping over the hole in her shoulder with worry. Scenarios of infection and an unusable limb raced through is mind as Athos joined him.

“I’m fine,” she managed. She jerked her chin down the corridor with a pant. “Porthos and d’Art chased Charon towards the main chamber.”

Athos looked over his shoulder and then leveled the woman with a look. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

“Go!” she yelled.

* * *

“I wanted Flea!” Charon yelled. “I figured with him gone, I could finally…”

“You had her for years Charon,” d’Art snarled as Porthos skidded into the chamber. “Stop this lunacy.”

“Lunacy,” Charon whispered.

“Charon,” Porthos whispered with placating hands raised. “Stop this. I don’t want to fight you, Charon.”

“He wants to fight you,” d’Art muttered.

“And I will go through you if I have to, d’Art,” Charon whispered though his heart wasn’t in the statement. “I’m leaving this place, my empire of ash, one way or another.”

“I’d love to see you try,” d’Art sneered.

“d’Art,” Porthos warned. The effect was instantaneous. D’Art moved out of the way, eyes unsure and worried but he moved. Charon watched the young man slip over to the wall and press his back against it and Porthos nodded to him.

“You always listened to Flea and d’Art always listened to you,” Charon whispered, the knife in his hand waving back and forth as he tapped his hand against his leg.

“I won’t fight you Charon.”

Charon glared at him and Porthos knew the answer. Charon leapt at him, the knife swinging for his chest. He blocked it, batting the offending arm away with his own. The long coat was in the way but it made for a good distraction to get Charon away from him. He tossed it aside as soon as Charon was climbing to his feet. They tossed punches and bowls at each other, d’Art yelping when he had to dodge stray cutlery.

It ended when Porthos finally managed to wrestle the knife from Charon’s hands and slam him to the floor. He hovered over his friend, staring down at the broken being before him. None of this was Charon’s fault. Not really. Charon had never really liked the Court but he’d stayed because his friends were there. Porthos had known this when he’d left and had offered, asked, begged, Charon and Flea to come with him.

Flea loved the Court. D’Art had been too young to be away from the Court and it’s protection and Flea wouldn’t leave d’Art unattended to the Court. Charon loved Flea. He loved d’Art as well but it wasn’t like his love for Flea.

It was all just a bad situation and he hadn’t helped it.

He tossed the knife away. “I’m not like you Charon…I’m a Musketeer.”

He stood on shaking legs, his eyes rising to find d’Art standing off to the side, brown eyes filled with an awe that Porthos hadn’t seen in years. It was the same look he’d gotten when he’d first shown d’Art how to climb a building without sound or when he taught him to pick a lock. Like when Aramis first showed off for d’Art for fun only to end up being begged to teach the skill.

In an instant, Porthos couldn’t speak. His voice seized up on him and he couldn’t bring himself to bother caring. His friend had tried to destroy their home, had shot the woman they both loved. D’Art was keeping secrets from everyone, dragging Radha and Charlotte down into those secrets – probably without their knowledge. Flea was hurt. He had a man to find and question so he could clear his name.

And it was that last thought, the last worry, which kept him from asking his questions. The question of where d’Art had been for the last two years and why he hadn’t shared could wait. Flea had told him to go and he had. Charon was broken, his plan wrecked. Porthos couldn’t bring himself to care about the other things.

He could hear Aramis in the distance, calling for him. The questions could wait.

“Porthos!” Aramis cried before the deafening blast of pistol made his ears ring.

Charon’s scream followed the thunderous clash, his leg falling out from under him. Porthos caught him, holding him in a tight hold as they both crumpled to the floor. Aramis swept up the knife Porthos had missed Charon dropping.

“He’ll live,” Aramis ground out with a grim frown. “Though, you should let me shoot him for trying to kill you.” He shoved his pistol in Charon’s face. Charon grinned, muttering that he’d told Porthos he’d leave this place.

“Stop!”

Aramis spun, eyes wild as they landed on d’Art. The young man had his pistol leveled at where Charon’s legs had been. His chest was heaving and his hand shook with tremors Porthos knew weren’t like him.

“Stop,” he croaked.

“Listen to him,” Porthos said, standing and moving to the young man.

His hand wrapped around the pistol’s hot barrel, pushing it away from d’Art as he wrapped an arm around the young man. The pistol fell into his grip and he shoved it towards Aramis. It slipped from his fingers but it wasn’t Aramis’ gloves Porthos felt slide against his fingers. He didn’t care though, as d’Art leaned his head into his chest and sobbed.

“You can’t shoot friends,” Porthos murmured as he soothed the boy in his arms. “Not without feeling it yourself.”


	31. Homecoming: Part 5

The return to the barracks had been a quiet journey for Athos and Aramis. De Mauvoisin had reportedly taken his own life after signing his full confession, Tréville returning to the palace as soon as the paper was in his hands. Another Musketeer had been sent to tell them of the good news, a relatively new recruit from two years ago who was still nervous about the elder Musketeers – such as Athos and Aramis. There had been a lot of stuttering and babbling but the news got through none the less.

Porthos had nabbed the young recruit to help with clearing out the powder kegs before either Athos or Aramis could ask for him to join them on the way home. He’d also tossed Charon over the back of d’Art’s horse with little ceremony before disappearing back into the fray of people, the recruit’s arm in his firm grip.

They had deposited Charon’s injured form into a chair in Tréville’s office once they’d managed to wrestle him up the steps. Tréville’s eyes were stormy as he glared at the crippled man before him, threats seeping from his brow before he even opened his mouth for a surgeon to be sent. Nothing was said in front of Charon past how he’d been injured and where he was fated to be sent. Tréville remained as a statue in his seat, his hands sorting reports.

Charon was tended to by the time Porthos returned to the barracks like a tempest, sword stands knocked over and men dodging out of the way of flying chairs and bowls. D’Art had apparently disappeared on him and he was taking his frustration out on the only things he could; what wasn’t breathing and was easily replaced. He had spotted Charon and had flown into a rage, calling the man everything under the sun but a coward and cursing Charon to the deepest pits in hell.

There was something in his exchange that caught Athos’ attentions though. It was a question. A simple one with grand ramifications depending on the answer. The kind of question Athos wished to ask _her_.

_How could you do that to d’Art?_

Aramis had managed to pull him away with the promise of spirits and an open ear while Athos had volunteered to escort Charon to the jail.

“Porthos seemed upset,” Charon rumbled as Athos lead his horse towards the jail.

Charon was tied to the saddles in such a way that if he twitched wrong, his leg would scream at him. His horse was tied to Athos’ saddle despite his mount’s displeasure. It could snort and stamp all it wanted but it was trained to never throw him for such trivial inconveniences.

“Being called a murderer may have caused some undue tension,” Athos muttered, his head bowed so his hat would shield him from the sunlight that glared through the trees.

“Doubt it,” Charon called. “d’Art probably said something distressing, more like.”

Athos halted the horses then, his curiosity getting the better of him. He was tired of knowing so little about the young man who’d wriggled into his life. He was tired of being jealous of Porthos and Aramis for knowing d’Art longer than he had and feeling out of the loop in their conversations. He was exhausted from the ever present mystery of d’Art.

“How long have you known d’Art?”

Charon stared at him in a confused manner, brows furrowed at the question as if he was trying to find the trap. Athos waited patiently for the answer, watching as Charon looked him over with a newfound interest.

“Long as Porthos,” Charon admitted. “Though, Porthos only raised him for two years before he left us.”

“He didn’t take d’Art with him?”

It wasn’t really a question considering all Athos had seen. He was more interested in the _reason_ d’Art had been left in the Court of Miracles. From what he’d seen, Flea was probably a far more responsible party in Porthos’ past while Charon had probably been the physical embodiment of the muck Porthos had dragged himself free of. Flea at least had the sense to bandage a wound while Charon created them at will.

Charon shook his head, a sad expression coloring his eyes for a moment.

“No,” he said. “Too dangerous to take a boy that age out of the only home he’s ever known. Also, who would hire a man like Porthos if he had a child to care for?”

_Tréville_ , Athos thought instantly. There were quite a few men in the regiment who not only had wives who worried over them; they had children. There were a few with daughters they worried over marriage gifts for. Tréville had taken them for their skill; not just the worry over their familial situations.

“Did he have anything with him when he came to the Court?”

“A trinket and a slit throat.”

“I’ve seen the scar.”

“Seen the trinket?”

“…No.”

“As expected,” Charon scoffed, tossing his head and agitating his leg in the process. “He wouldn’t let me get a good look at it.”

“Maybe there’s something to that rationality.”

Charon sneered at him for a moment before he smiled a slick grin.

“Have you learned _how_ d’Art came to the Court?” Charon asked.

“No. Porthos has not mentioned it.”

Charon barked a laugh. “Well, it isn’t every day a five year old with a slit throat is found on the Parisian streets now is it?”

Athos managed to not cuff the bastard against the head as the very idea settled in his mind. Charon was right. There were few children found dead in the city limits and when they were found, there were many who mourned the loss. Children were precious things to be coddled and sheltered.

“We took that boy in, patched him up, taught him, raised him,” Charon sneered. “Flea and I did. Porthos was nowhere to be found.”

“And yet, it was _d’Art_ who had to _shoot you_ when _you_ tried to kill _Porthos_ ,” Athos snarled back.

It was suddenly clear Charon knew nothing when it came to d’Art and his interactions with people outside of the Court. Porthos had been present in d’Art’s life if the stories from Aramis were anything to believe. Also, Athos had seen the same sort of loyalty in d’Art he had found in Porthos; unyielding and deadly when angered.

“The two who raised him were the ones injured while the one who taught him to fight was the one he defended.”

“Porthos taught him _nothing_!” Charon hissed.

Athos kicked his horse into a walk, his eyes flashing as he bared his teeth at the open road before him. He couldn’t risk staying near this man any longer than he already had. He knew every man and woman had their own point of view that was shortened by personal circumstances. Charon’s personal situation had clouded his sight more than Athos could believe.

He shuffled through the jail, Charon limping behind him while the Guard opened a cell. He didn’t bother being gentle when he shoved Charon inside. The door closed with a creaking bang and a clatter of keys. Charon just glared at him. He glared back as he leaned his elbow against the bars, his other hand tilting his sword in a threatening manner.

“Porthos taught him everything.”

He stormed out of the jail in a huff, shoving his hat onto his head and patting himself down to ensure none of his weapons had gone missing. He paused outside of the gate, in front of his horse. He was a gun short. And it wasn’t his gun but d’Art’s. The one he’d shot Charon with. And, if he thought really hard on it – which he did – he had the faint memory of his belt feeling lighter before he’d left the Court.

“Porthos taught him _almost_ everything.”

* * *

Constance had not been expecting d’Art to climb through the window while she was cleaning his room. Well, at least now she knew how he was sneaking in without her knowledge. She was also now aware that the young man was like a ghost when he wished to go unnoticed. She made a personal note to keep his window unlocked for times like these but it is quickly shoved to the back of her mind as he sinks to the floor.

She has never seen him cry before.

She was still hard pressed to remember the last time he had been anything but the quiet young man who seemed to hold her in high regard. There had been the issue with Marsac surely that had scared her once but it was outweighed by the times when he pressed against her back to teach her how to aim and how to hold a sword. The way his smile lit up the conversations they had in an instant, making the subject of laundry or shopping seem like the most important things in the world.

She hid the blush that burned her cheeks at the most recent memory of his hand on her waist, smoothing over her corset to settle on her belly so she was pressed into the curve of his hips as she aimed the musket.

“d’Art? Whatever’s the matter?” she asked as she knelt at his side. Her hand fell on his knee as if it belonged there, the other on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze.  His knees pressed against his chest as his arms tightened around them, tears streaking down his cheeks.

“I…He…Porthos…gun…” was all that came out.

“Is Porthos hurt?” she asked, her brows in her hairline.

D’Art shook his head, a hand smearing over his eyes. She hadn’t noticed how filthy he was until he had done so. He looked like someone hand streaked dark war paint over his face. She wiped the grime away with her apron which only lead to her being shocked as it came back brown.

“What’s this about a gun?” she asked, knowing that she probably shouldn’t press but unable to help herself.

“Mine…pulled…blood, everywhere.”

He pulled the weapon free of its holster on his hip, turning it in his hands. It was beautiful. Not as ostentatious as the one Aramis carried and not as plain as Porthos’. It was like Athos’ musket that she’d seen when he’d cleaned it on her table a few weeks back. It was understated in its embellishments that flowed through the wood like dark rivers and light clouds. It wasn’t flowers or vines but simple, almost nonsensical patterns of circles and swirling loops. The gun was no less threatening though, the point of it left bare in the simplicity of the design. This was not something the owner would have to take in to be repainted for half their yearly salary.

This was a weapon. One that reflected the soul that held it.

Athos’ had nicks in the wood, dents in the metal, a heavier pommel due to being replaced a few too many times – she’d learned from his complaining about the balance.

This one, a lighter brown like d’Art’s favorite leather jacket, was unmarked save for the damage it had been given since running with the Inseparables. The nicks in the metal were almost impossible to find unless it had missed an oiling – which had yet to happen as far as she could tell. It was young, though, not without its secrets;like its owner.

“Porthos isn’t hurt though?” she murmured, mostly to think through what she had to work with. He shook his head again. “Did you shoot someone to keep him safe?” A shaky nod and choked breath. More tears flowed as he covered his mouth.

“Sorry…not your problem…should go,” he mumbled past the hand.

He jerked to his feet but Constance’s hands were faster and her upper body strangely stronger than him. She yanked him back to the floor and swiftly wrapped herself about him, kicking a leg over his so her skirts tangled his limbs. Her face pressed against his neck as he forced him to pin one of her arms between his back and the wall. Her other hand slipped into his soft – greasy – hair, her palm against his ear. She didn’t care that she was sitting on his lap, her breasts pushing into his chest as if the dress wasn’t good enough for them.

He reeked of something she couldn’t place past the bitter tang of alcohol and the rotten scent of gunpowder she would recognize anywhere now. There was the sour scent of sweat clinging to his skin as well but she could tell he’d been running from the gasping breaths and wild eyed expression.

The barrel of the gun wedged itself under her ribs in her rush to still him. His breathing had halted, hitching when his finger accidentally slid around the trigger guard. Constance slid her hand down his chest, gripping the barrel with a tight yet gentle grasp. She turned the gun away, dragging it from his stiff fingers and tossing it into the corner where they could both stare at it.

The sunset’s orange glow filled the room before d’Art’s breathing calmed, the jerking form his sniffling ceased. His hands were on her, one on her waist while the other sat on her knee, the fingers dipping into the curve of the joint from when he’d subconsciously dragged it higher to make her more comfortable. There was a desperation to the way his fingers twitched against her body; like they were trying to hook her into place so his anchor wouldn’t leave his drifting again.

Yes, she was sure he had been drifting.

“Porthos is safe,” she stated, her lips brushing against his neck with feathery touches. He hummed his affirmation. “You shot someone to keep him as such.” Another hum though there was a note of distress in it. “Was it a criminal?”

He took a shaky breath. “Sort of…Charon was…like Porthos…A brother, a protector, a mentor.”

“But?” she prompted.

“He…he wanted to…destroy the Court….Kill everyone there….He was going to hurt Port…I…”

She shushed him, a finger pressing against his lips. He gave a shuddering breath as another onslaught of sobs wracked through him. He pressed his face to her shoulder and she cradled him close, her eyes drifting out to the window as the moon began to peek over the rooftops.

Constance rarely wished for Aramis’ presence in her husband’s home but she found herself wishing he were there. She couldn’t quite remember the order of a proper prayer for the situation she found herself in. Night was filtering into the room which called to her that night prayers were what she should speak. She didn’t know the full letter of such prayers though.

She only remembered the calls from the priests.

“Lord Almighty grant us a quiet night and a perfect end,” she whispered.

“Amen,” he greeted against her shoulder.

“Our help is in the name of the Lord.”

“…who made heaven and earth.”

He paused, gulping down something she couldn’t understand. She’d shot a man, yes, but not a friend. She smiled and smoothed his hair back in encouragement. Of course he would know the prayers. He was truly Aramis’ prodigy.

“Most merciful God, we confess to you,” he whispered with a shaking voice, “before the whole company of heaven and one another that we have sinned in thought, word and deed and in what we have failed to do.” She wondered what he’d failed to do. “Forgive us our sins, heal us by your Spirit and raise us to new life in Christ.”

“Amen,” she whispered. “Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit; as it was in the beginning is now and shall be forever.”

“Amen.”

Somehow, Constance knew there was more to the Night Prayer than simply asking protection and forgiveness for things left undone but she found herself not caring. She was comfortable and warm as she pressed against d’Art’s body. It was a welcome feeling, the firmness of a man against the soft of her curves. Her husband was gone almost more than he was present lately; the need for customers outweighing his others needs as well as her own. This…This was nice.

D’Art was quiet as she pressed into him, his body almost completely still. It was worrisome to her how still he was. She understood the recent circumstance had probably blinded him to her inappropriate cuddling but surely he wasn’t unaware of it either. Yet, there was no reaction. Was she truly that pathetic?

And it all clicked then. The buzzing at the back of her mind since d’Art had asked for forgiveness. She had sinned in her own way; in her thoughts. Her husband gave her no attention and she found herself disliking him greatly for it. D’Art was kind, gentle, soft spoken, protective, and loyal. Her _listened_ to her, kept his promises as well as he could with his other responsibilities with the Musketeers and his two friends, and he gave her _nothing_ but kindness and sincerity.

Yet, she couldn’t ask for forgiveness. She _liked_ the feelings she had spawning from her relationship with d’Art. She was whole and she wouldn’t beg forgiveness for feeling as such. A person was meant to be whole in body and soul. What else was there to pray for anymore?

It was late when she heard shuffling from her front door. Part of her worried it was her husband; that he’d find her. She couldn’t find it in herself to hate the idea of being found. It was almost thrilling.

She peeked over her shoulder when the door creaked open. Through the crack, she found herself staring at the fiery halo of braided curls that she recognized as one of d’Art’s friends. The girl slipped into the room like a ghost, the door clicking shut behind her. In moments, she knelt next to d’Art, a hand against his brow and soft murmurings falling from her lips.

“Thank you,” she whispered to Constance. “I was worried he’d taken today badly and would do something worrisome.” She pressed a caste kiss to d’Art’s brow. A knot tightened in Constance’s stomach at the sight but she shoved it away when she realized d’Art had fallen asleep.

“Worrisome?” she asked. The girl smiled weakly.

“He never gave Charlotte and I the reason for why he left two years ago or why he didn’t want us to announce his return to our other friends,” she whispered. She rubbed his arm for a moment before rising to her feet. “My apologies for intruding but I was worried.”

“It’s alright,” Constance whispered, understanding that there was something she couldn’t understand going on between this young woman and d’Art. It was like love but stranger. Constance wasn’t sure she’d experienced it.

The young woman was at the door again when her footsteps halted.

“Take care of him will you?” she whispered. Constance nodded, earning a smile. The girl disappeared and the house fell silent again. Constance took the chance to press a kiss to d’Art’s temple, reveling in the bitter tang of dirt and sweat.


	32. Questions and Relations: Part 1

It was quiet for weeks after Porthos’ name was cleared. Radha spent her days outside the Bonacieux household, her tongue laden with gossip from the Court. She held it silent though, knowing that her news would be of little help or consequence.

When word of what Charon had planned reached the ears of the Court things had gotten silent, the air buzzing with unasked questions. Flea had taken the place of Queen, her firm hand gently shepherding everyone back into their normal routines while also settling worries as best she could. There had been a loud command from the Mass that Charon shouldn’t see the inside of a courtroom but Flea had shut down any and all actions with a firm snarl that Charon was no longer the Court’s concern.

This hadn’t stopped some from learning what they could of the proceedings. Charon had been charged with murder and attempted murder as well as sedition thanks to having gunpowder without a license. There were murmurs that Charon was also being charged for coercion of a ‘good man’ but Charlotte had informed Radha that no such thing was happening. Not when aforementioned ‘good man’ had already confessed as well as taken his own life – which was against his religion’s doctrine if Radha remembered correctly.

She found herself sitting in the dappled shade of the trees in the small courtyard of Constance’s home, listening to the maids’ gossip over her clothes. While Radha didn’t give much of a damn if someone didn’t like how she was dressed but a few of these girls were particularly loud and rude about it. Really, could no one simply leave a girl to her sewing in peace? She liked it when her blouses remained on her body damn it all.

Constance streamed out of the house in a whirl of fabric, a brown clad blur following her as cloth leapt from her basket in her rush. One handkerchief escaped however, billowing over to catch itself on Radha’s ankle. She sighed as she knotted the string, cutting it on her teeth and slipped the needle into the loose strap of her corset. She snatched up the pale cloth with her pointer and middle fingers and strode up to the flustered woman.

Constance had come to see her as a standing entity over the last few weeks due to her appearing and disappearing to check on d’Art. He had been quieter since he’d shot Charon – who she knew Aramis had remembered due to his screaming at Porthos about the time with Therron – and had hardly strayed from Constance’s side. Radha knew they had an arrangement going about since they would occasionally leave the house and she had been signaled to not follow. She wasn’t going to judge though. Not when Constance was able to get him out of a building.

He’d gone to the Musketeer barracks as well though those trips were short and sparse. Radha knew d’Art was sneaking into Tréville’s office since the alley window was strangely open as of late. She didn’t need to see him actively disappear into the office or appear from the window to know what the invitation looked like. She could wonder when d’Art had informed Tréville what an invitation looked like though.

Either way, Radha had learned rather quickly that d’Art wasn’t planning on leaving Constance’s side for very long if he could help it. It helped that his self-sequestering had left him out of the loop on anything that would have forced him to speak to Tréville.

She flipped the handkerchief onto the load with a flippant toss as she passed, the muttering of the girls annoying her to no end. D’Art was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and his head bowed. He wasn’t wearing his scarf for whatever reason but Radha couldn’t find herself worried over that.

“Feeling alright?” she asked as she pressed her back to the wall at his side. He hummed an affirmative at her though no other indication was made. His eyes were on Constance and Radha found herself wondering if he’d woken up to the other woman in his lap after she’d left.

“Oh,” Constance breathed when she turned. “Radha, you surprised me.”

“She’s been here since morning Constance,” d’Art murmured, shifting his weight onto his other foot. There was a flippant shrug of his shoulders as he chuckled at the pout Constance shot him.

“I’m sorry Lady Bonacieux,” Radha said with a sweet smile. “It’s just this idiot I worry over.”

“Who’re you calling an idiot?” d’Art snickered, his arm sliding around her shoulders to pull her close. “You weren’t calling me that three years ago.” He pressed a kiss to her temple as he always did.

“I see he’s in better spirits,” Radha laughed as she ignored the flash that passed through Constance’s eyes at the closeness she and d’Art were sharing. She pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek before wriggling free.

“Where’re you off to?” d’Artagnan called though he made no move to follow her.

“Around,” she cackled. “Can’t stay here all day, now can I?” She waved over her shoulder, ignoring Constance’s pointed question of how d’Artagnan knew her exactly. He laughed about childhood friendships as Radha slipped onto the street.

There was more to it really. Far more though she held no regrets that it had ended when it had. Radha couldn’t fault him for wanting to experiment a bit but when either of them thought too deeply about the arrangement, they’d gotten nervous around each other. It was safer to not draw tighter attachments with people one ran with and they had flirted along that line far longer than was suggested.

The fact they were still talking was relief though d’Artagnan had scared the hell out of her when he reappeared. She’d known he’d return though she hadn’t been aware just how much baggage he’d seemingly dumped when he’d left until he’d returned to the Court.

He’d made express instructions to not inform Flea and Charon that he was back in Paris when he’d first met up with them after the highway robbers. Charlotte had been against it, voicing d’Art had been gone for two years without word to anyone. He’d shut her down by instructing her to respect his wish. Radha didn’t particularly care really, knowing he had his reasons and, like some things in his life, it wasn’t her place to ask.

Shooting Charon however seemed to have awakened something in him again. Some sort of regret of something she couldn’t fathom. She didn’t like it.

“Radha!”

She spun with a yelp, her hand flying to her chest to keep her heart where it bloody damned well belonged. She glared at the man before her.

“Damn it, you _scared_ me!” she hissed.

“Apologies,” Athos rumbled as he wrapped a hand around her arm. She looked at the offending hand with a cocked brow, asking him what he was doing. He ignored it though as he dragged her into a pub she had never seen before.

“Ah…what’s this about?” she asked as she was steered into a seat.

It was a corner table with little interaction with the rest of the place. Athos lifted a single finger at her as a signal for her to remain where she was. Fearing what a man like him could do to a small woman like herself, she stayed put as he moved off for something. A plate was placed before her, piled up with meat and bread that reeked of garlic. Radha stared at it with wide, confused eyes. How could there be that much food on a single plate?

“Never seen that much food before?” Athos asked as he sat across from her. She shook her head as she buried her hands between her legs, her eyes fixed on the plate. “It’s not going to bite you. Eat up.”

“Why all the ceremony?” she asked as she set into the food, separating it and checking for anything unappetizing.

“I have a few questions.”

She cocked her head, her fingers picking at the food before her. “About?”

“d’Artagnan.”

She snorted, shaking her head again. “Why not ask him personally?” she shot off before popping a hunk of meat into her mouth. She watched the man as he smirked. “Ah…You know him well enough to know better.” A nod. “Damn,” she huffed past a hunk of bread.

“Indeed,” he replied as he sipped at some wine.

“Couldn’t find Charlotte could you?”

“Not a trace.”

“Why not ask Porthos then?”

Blue eyes peeked past limp bangs at her as if she’d asked a stupid question. “He’s busy dealing with Aramis’ questions on Charon.” Those eyes became sharp as they stared at her. “A name of which I remember you mentioning before.”

“When you lot were worried over Theron,” she chuckled around the food in her mouth as she lathered a bit of meat in the garlic covering the wood platter. “This tastes wonderful by the way.”

“Good and…yes,” he muttered, a catch in his voice the only betrayal of any sort of unease he could be feeling about this conversation. He took a gulp from his mug as she dragged her bread through the liquid mess on her plate. She continued to munch as he seemed to search for the right words.

“Aramis also asking about their old relationship?” she asked as gently as she could currently manage. It wasn’t in her usual routine to be pulled aside by a Musketeer for a meal. Nor was it her usual routine to be asked about one of her oldest friends over a meal. Two could play the game though.

“It has changed to how bad an influence Charon could possibly have been on Porthos and d’Art as of late,” Athos admitted. He took another gulp of wine and signaled for another. A bottle was slammed onto the table, a foul smelling man taking the opportunity to lean against Radha’s back.

“Love the place you picked,” she hissed, her nose wrinkled. “It’s got quite an atmosphere, Papa.”

Athos didn’t bother glaring at her for the title, his eyes focusing on the man pressed against her.

“I must agree, Darling,” he replied smoothly as he poured himself a drink from the bottle before him.

Radha smiled as sweetly as she would while playing a game with d’Artagnan. She hadn’t expected Athos to play along with her in the effort of getting the bartender away from her so she wouldn’t have to smell him. The touch wasn’t wanted but the smell was of far higher concern to her.

“Sir, get off my daughter,” Athos continued with a dark look that made his eyes glow with murderous intent. The man backed off immediately, his cloying scent disappearing after him.

“Thank you,” she smiled as she reached across the table to snatch his cup from his hands. She emptied it before he could complain, gasping out her approval of the sweet – cheap – wine. “Lovely drink too.”

“Glad you approve,” he grumbled. “My questions?”

“Ask. I’ll answer what I can.” She smiled at him. “Least I can do after you got that oaf off me. You sure you need d’Art’s acting skills? You seem to have enough on your own.”

“Enough,” Athos sighed. “Charon made a claim and I wish to question it.”

“Claim? What sort of claim?”

“That Porthos didn’t do much when it came to raising d’Artagnan.”

She blinked at the use of d’Art’s full name but let it slide at his words. It was almost laughable but, considering who was telling her this news, all the humor was lost. She allowed herself to snort though.

“Of _course_ he claimed that,” she sighed.

She combed a greasy hand through her hair, not caring of the consequences until Athos shoved a handkerchief at her. She took the proffered item and cleaned her hands and hair. She was about to hand it back when he held a hand up to stop her, his blue eyes brokering no room for argument.

“I _do_ live on the streets, you know?” she sneered.

“You hang around d’Art and _he_ has _manners_ ,” was the retort.

“Point,” she conceded. She sighed again. “Porthos joined the Musketeers two years after d’Art was found by an ex-priest who lived in the Court.”

“He was injured when he was found?”

“You heard of that too I see.” Athos nodded at her. She popped some bread into her mouth again and chewed for a moment. “You’ve seen the scar?”

“Yes. The trinket as well.”

“He must really like you then,” she chuckled. “I only know about it because of…certain activities.”

Athos stared at her.

“What? Did you think he and I were inexperienced?”

“A man can hope can’t he?” he covered, his eyes fixed on the mug in his hands.

“It’s dangerous to do that.”

“Fine. Go on about why Charon would think Porthos didn’t help raise d’Art, would you?”

She smirked at him but continued anyway. “Charon is the reason d’Art has learned some of the…trickier bits of being a street rat.”

“Like picking locks?”

She lifted a brow in interest. “He showed that trick off?” A frown and a nod from the man across from her. “Has he picked a pocket for you yet?”

“He picks pockets?”

“How else can he get some of the things he gets?” she asked. “Some evidence isn’t exactly kept in a drawer or book. Sometimes, it’s kept on one’s person.”

“He’s also good at getting people to talk I hear,” Athos snarled.

“ _That_ he learned from Porthos and Aramis,” she said with a sweep of her hand as if to shove the subject aside. “Well…no, he knew that all on his own. Claims a friend could always get him to talk when he was little.” She drummed her fingers against her cheek, her chin perched on her palm as she thought back.

“A friend?” Athos asked. She nodded. “Has he ever…described this friend?”

She shook her head. “Nothing to tie to an image. No, it was always, ‘I had a friend who could do _this_ ’ or ‘my friend was good at _that_ ’,” she explained, gesturing to enunciate the ‘this’ and ‘that’ as she spoke.

“No name either?”

He sounded almost desperate and it pained her to shake her head. Her heart went out to the man when he bowed his head with a long, groaning sigh. She could admit that she didn’t care for her answer very much either but that didn’t detract from it being truthful.

“Anything else I should be aware of?”

“Just that Charon was a lovesick and love-blind idiot,” she muttered with a shrug. “Porthos raised d’Art as best he could from his position as a Musketeer. He taught him to fight with or without a knife. Aramis joined in with shooting lessons around…I think d’Art was ten when that started.”

“How many years difference is there between those three?” Athos mused. She wasn’t sure if he meant to say it aloud but she answered him none the less.

“d’Art’s thirty this last spring,” she offered.

“ _Thirty_?!?!” Athos hissed. She nodded, her eyes wide at the horrified tone of his voice. The man scrubbed a hand over his face, his eyes distressed as they darted around the silent pub. “They’d be the same age then…”

“They?” she dared to ask. Athos swallowed thickly, his eyes fixed on her again.

“I knew a boy in Gascony before I joined the Musketeers,” Athos explained. “He and d’Art would be the same age if…”

“Ah,” she murmured. “Condolences.”

“Thank you.” He paused for a moment. “I realize this isn’t what I originally wished to know of but…I have to ask.”

“Yes?”

“You mentioned he could pick pockets.”

“Is this about the trinket?” she asked, her green eyes flashing with a sudden anger that made the man flinch from her gaze. That was a pleasing realization though she wasn’t sure she should push it.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“He had it with him when the old Father brought him into the Court,” she snarled. “Porthos got him a chain for it no less.”

“I’ve…heard.”

“Then you won’t doubt the validity of my words when I say that that trinket is d’Artagnan’s, will you?”

“No.”

“Good,” she huffed. “Anything else?”

“…Did Charon know d’Art was in Paris?”

“No. d’Art asked us to say nothing.”

“You, Charlotte, and Porthos?”

“Porthos lost contact with the Court when he left.”

“So, only you and Charlotte knew he was back?”

“Yes.”

“When did you know?”

“Sometime after he helped to clear a Musketeer of highway robbery and murder,” she growled, her arms crossed over her chest as she leaned back in the chair. “I’m _sure_ you heard about it.”

“I did.”

“Well then,” she huffed as she rose to her feet, “I’m sure you can make a judgment on the type of person d’Art is from all your experience with him.”

“One other question.”

“ _What_?!” she snarled.

“Was there a time piece with that trinket?”

She blinked. “No,” she admitted.

Athos sighed. “Thank you for your time then.”

“Thank you for the food.” She turned only to pause. She glanced over her shoulder. “What’s the time piece got to do with any of it?”

“Something quite important.”

“Must be if you’re so bloody worried about it.

“Quite.”

“Good luck with that then.”

“My thanks.”


	33. Questions and Relations: Part 2

Athos returned to the barracks with a strange expression on his face. He was only aware of it due to the strange looks of concern he was getting from his fellows. Porthos and Aramis were at the table that sat under the balcony of Tréville’s office, mugs in hand and looking rather morose. Athos joined them in his usual silent manner; no words, no sighing, and no eye contact.

“Where have you been?” Aramis asked around his cup.

“Patrolling,” Athos stated calmly. “You two seem to have begun to grow roots.”

“There was a lot to cover,” Porthos admitted, his eyes distant.

“Any news on Charon’s sentencing?” Athos asked, knowing it wasn’t a subject he wanted to touch.it had to be prodded at though so he, as the so-called leader and most blunt of the three in matters such as these, asked.

“He’s to hang,” Porthos stated. “I will not be attending.”

“Nor will d’Art,” Aramis hissed.

Athos groaned. “You went to see him, didn’t you?”

The two refused to meet his stern gaze, their cups far more interesting to them as they swirled the contents about. They were constantly clenching and unclenching their jaws as well as they searched for the right way out of Athos’ stare.

“What’d he say?” Athos sighed.

“That Porthos didn’t raise d’Art,” Aramis snarled. “That d’Art would always be a street rat and so on and so forth.”

“Radha already laid that claim to waste for me,” Athos muttered with a dismissive wave.

“Patrolling, he said,” Porthos jeered. “More like interrogating.”

“Please tell me you at least wooed the girl first,” Aramis snickered.

“I fed her.”

Aramis laughed, a hand slamming down on the table as his shoulders quaked. He babbled something through the laughter that Athos choose to ignore in favor of gauging why Porthos was silent. Porthos’ eyes met his with a leveling stare that struck Athos with a pinning nature that made him feel as if he couldn’t even twitch away from it.

“What?” he finally spat.

“Thought so,” Porthos rumbled as he took a gulp from his cup.

“Thought what?” Aramis asked, suddenly sobered.

“He asked her about d’Artagnan,” Porthos grumped. Aramis frowned, his eyes sliding to Athos as if he were afraid to find the truth present there. He sighted when Athos fixed him with a glare.

“Well, at least she got a meal out of it,” Aramis sighed.

“At least she will answer my questions when I ask them instead of skirting around the subject,” Athos ground out.

“She will speak louder with coins in her hand,” Porthos muttered.

“I will take that under advisement,” Athos hissed.

“Why can’t you just ask us about this stuff?” Aramis whined.

“Did you not hear me? You two will skirt around the subject and go tell d’Art what questions I’ve asked,” Athos said, his temper flaring.

“And yet you asked one of the two girls d’Art has put trust in about him,” Porthos muttered as he set his cup down with a hollow thud.

“They’ll know more then,” Athos shot back.

“No,” Porthos growled. “They’ll speak to you and then they’ll speak to d’Art; like Aramis and I do. Now, I don’t know about you but, I _am_ worried for that boy’s future just as much as those girls but that doesn’t mean I’m going to play along with _your_ stupid games, Athos. If you want to prove he’s who we’ve said he is, do it. Don’t drag Radha or Charlotte into it.”

He had risen from his seat as he’d spoken, buckling on his pauldron and weapons as his voice grew darker and louder. He had his gloves in his hand when he rested it on the pommel of his sword as he fixed Athos with a glare.

“Also,” he huffed, “if there’s _anyone_ who _should_ be in the know of your search, it’s d’Art. At least Aramis and I let him know you didn’t believe us. You…” Porthos waved his gloves at Athos in frustration, his voice catching in his throat. He let out a growl before declaring he was going to take a walk.

“Had enough of this,” he snarled as he stomped off.

“I better make sure he doesn’t get blamed for murder again,” Aramis sighed as he too rose. He donned his hat and picked up his sword, leaving with the sound of rattling belts and weapons. He halted at the gate with a jerk, his head popping up from his sword belt. He strode back to the table with a long, hurried gait and a worried expression on his face.

“Did you ever find that pistol?” he asked.

Athos flushed. “No.”

“Damn.”

* * *

D’Art returned to the barracks a day after Porthos and Athos had argued over how Athos should handle his personal affairs, a lightness to his step and a small smile on his face. He appeared out of Tréville’s office, the Captain trialing after him as he gave the young man his thanks for returning and for his help with the incident concerning the Court. The boy was covered in mud.

“What did you fall into?” Aramis asked with a light hint of disgust in his voice as he held d’Art’s coat shoulder up with his fingertips.

“I was chasing a thief who tried to steal a woman’s purse,” the young man chuckled.

“A random woman or one we know?” Aramis jeered.

“One of the girls who work for Constance,” d’Art stated.

“Did you catch him?” Porthos asked with a large smile on his face. Tréville snorted at the question as he patted the young man on the back.

“Oh, he caught him,” Tréville chuckled. “And, as hard as it is to believe, the thief is dirtier than d’Art here.”

“ _How_?!?!” Aramis cried. Tréville shrugged and returned to his work. Aramis glared at the mud strewn man before him. “No. You’re getting a bath. Right now.”

“Can it wait?” d’Art asked. “I have no change of clothes currently.”

“You do have one though, yes?” Porthos asked.

“At the Bonacieux house…where _all_ my clothes are in all honesty,” d’Art chuckled as he picked at globs of mud that had landed on his jacket. Porthos and Aramis shared a look that made him laugh. “You don’t want me walking around like this now, do you?”

“No,” Aramis sighed.

“I can get him some clothes,” Porthos chuckled, patting Aramis on the shoulder. “You get him and his current clothes clean.”

“Do I look like a washer woman?”

“You’re the one complaining about how dirty they are!” Porthos shot back with a bark of laughter. “Besides, best not have Athos learn the lad came in covered in mud.”

“Ah, right,” Aramis sighed. D’Art cocked his head in confusion while Porthos chuckled as Aramis’ bright red face.

“What’s this about?” d’Art asked.

“Aramis here once went tumbling down a mud bank to catch a suspect,” Porthos explained. “Athos and another Musketeer were behind him and didn’t quite see his daring attempts to capture the man he was chasing.”

Aramis’ blush was now an impressive shade of red that made d’Art snicker. It wasn’t every day d’Art got to see the older man quite so flustered. Porthos decided to keep going with the story.

“So, Aramis goes down this embankment, catches the man, and then proceeded to wrestle him into submission in the creek,” Porthos chuckled. “By the time Athos showed up, Aramis and the suspect were covered in grime.”

“Yes, and Athos proceeded to lecture me on being a reflection on the rest of the Regiment and how I was supposed to hold myself to a higher standard than that of a lowly idiot who took pleasure in playing in the mud,” Aramis burst. “During his lecture, and he will tell you different but I speak the truth, the suspect tried to sneak away and ended up leaving his weapons and trousers behind.”

D’Art laughed at the image of a muddy Aramis standing in the middle of the country, Athos yelling at him on horseback, and a half naked man running for his life as Aramis watched.

“Athos also made him chase the suspect down again,” Porthos snickered.

“Didn’t even give me a bloody horse to do so either,” Aramis grumbled.

“I think I would have _paid_ to witness this,” d’Art stammered through his laughter. He was bent over double, arms cradling his stomach as tears dragged clean tracks over his muddy cheeks.

“ _Everyone_ would have paid to witness it!” Aramis burst as he shoved his hands into his gloves. “Come on you wretch,” he hissed as he clasped d’Artagnan’s shoulders and spun the young man around. “Enough laughter for one day.”

“I’ll get his clothes,” Porthos called over his shoulder as he made his own retreat out of the practice yard. His guffaws were still audible as Aramis shoved d’Art into the communal baths in the back of the barracks. Aramis’ muttered curses barely drowned the raucous out but the man managed.

“For someone who prays for the best in people so often, you sure know how to curse a man to hell and back,” d’Art snickered. Aramis steered him around to a tub that was full of clean, steaming water.

“I see Tréville already told someone you needed a bath,” Aramis muttered as he nearly ripped d’Artagnan’s leather jacket off the smaller man’s shoulders.

Chunks of mud splattered over the floor and the side of the metal tub. A few clumps landed on Aramis’ boots but he ignored them as he dragged d’Art’s belts loose and off of the young man’s body. The weapons and belt buckles clattered against the wood of the chair Aramis placed them on. They were, oddly, the cleanest things on the boy’s frame. Oh, they would still need to be cleaned out just for the sake of posterity and safety. One couldn’t have his gun jam on him because he’d failed to ensure the stupid thing was clean. Gun powder was corrosive all on its own. D’Art didn’t need anything else hindering his shots.

“I’m gonna need to clean those,” d’Art groaned as he pulled his scarf loose, more clumps of muck flopping onto the floor.

“ _Mon Dieu_!” Aramis gasped as he took the scarf in his gloved fingertips. “When did I give this to you again?”

“When I was…eight or something?” d’Art mumbled, a spark of fear racing through his brown eyes. “Why?”

“I need to give you a new one if this is how it looks after two decades,” Aramis grumbled.

He was about to toss the muddy, threadbare scarf onto the table with the weaponry when it was snatched from his hand. He turned to stare at d’Art, about to ask him to give it back, only to halt in his step as he found d’Art hugging the scarf to his chest and backing away from him.

“Oh, d’Art, I didn’t mean it,” Aramis stated with a soft voice, a placating hand up. The raised hand may not have been the wisest of choices since as soon as his arm moved, d’Art flinched away until his back smacked against the wall.

“d’Art,” Aramis sighed. “I’m not going to get you a new scarf without your permission, alright?”

“Promise?”

Aramis smiled as he pulled the queen’s rosary out from under his shirt with a less dirty finger.

“On my honor,” Aramis stated.

D’Art stared at the rosary for a moment before his eyes slid up to meet Aramis’. The young man nodded and relinquished the beaten up scarf. Aramis carefully deposited it on the chair with the weapons, muttering about cleaning it so it wouldn’t fall apart before he turned back to d’Art.

“Shirt, trousers, boots,” Aramis commanded with a flippant wave of his fingers. D’Art smiled wryly as he tugged his shirt off.

Aramis tried to ignore the twisting his stomach did at the sight of the thin lines that dotted about his torso like someone had tried to trace his ribs with a blade. He had a feeling that wounds like that had come from things like stealing food as well as keeping on top of the gossip of the city. He also suspected Charon had had a hand in some of those wounds.

D’Art slipped into the bath, hissing at the heat as Aramis laid his clothes into a washer’s basket. The boots, he perched against the wall as he tried to not mutter about the worn material. At the least, the stupid things would need to be given new soles if not replaced completely. Aramis sighed. After the issue with d’Art’s scarf, he’d have to approach replacing things of the boy’s with greater care.

Porthos came bustling in with the change of clothes as d’Art was getting his back scrubbed by Aramis who had also shed his jacket and weapons.  Porthos smiled at the fairly domestic scene before him as Aramis knelt by the tub with a cloth in hand, sleeves rolled up as he massaged mud out of d’Art’s hair.

“You’d think I was washing a toddler the way he squirms,” Aramis laughed as he deliberately tickled d’Art on the ribs. D’Art, in reprisal, yelped and dove under the water to get away from the offending fingers. A huge wave leapt out of the tub and doused Aramis, who sputtered in response as Porthos guffawed at their antics.

“Don’t tickle him then!” Porthos jeered as he took a seat next to the tub in front of d’Art. The young man was immersed to his nose in the light brown water that seemed to have lost its steam. The boy blew bubbles at him, his nose crinkling at Porthos’ smile.

“Help me out then you lout,” Aramis grumbled as he pulled d’Art up from the water to get a better look at his back. As d’Art yelped, Porthos looped his hands under d’Art’s arms.

“Traitor,” d’Art snickered as he laid his dripping hands onto Porthos’ shoulders.

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Lad,” Porthos snickered back.

“Where’d _this_ come from?” Aramis cried, his fingers brushing over d’Art’s back. Porthos leaned around to look over d’Art’s shoulder, a frown on his face.

“That’s an interesting scar,” Porthos admitted as he too brushed his fingertips over the crescent shape on d’Art’s back. “Where _did_ you get it from?”

“A horse,” d’Art said, his body squirming away from the attention. “I’ve had it since I was three,” he added with a soft voice that became harder to hear as he pressed his nose into Porthos’ shoulder.

“What _are_ you three _doing_?” a familiar, growling, voice called.

“Athos,” Aramis sighed as he glanced over his shoulder to look at their leader with a frown. “We’re helping d’Art get cleaned up after he caught a thief. No, the irony is _not_ lost on us.”

“Aramis!” Porthos scowled.

“Caught a thief?” Athos asked as he strode into the chamber. His blue eyes fell on the messy clothes and weapons. “Must have been quite the adventure.”

D’Art glanced over his shoulder to meet Athos’ gaze. It was soft, a small smile twitching the corner of the man’s lips up. He smiled back with a jerky nod. The two of them were oblivious to the shocked expressions on Porthos and Aramis’ faces at the exchange. The eldest and youngest were also oblivious to the dropped jaws of their fellows at the sight of Athos ruffling d’Art’s soaking hair, a wry chuckle dripping past Athos’ lips.

“Well, at least you know to get cleaned up after your adventures,” Athos stated with a pointed look at Aramis who blushed.

“They insisted,” d’Art said, pointing to Porthos and Aramis. He stared at his fingers then. “I’m turning into a prune.”

“Here,” Athos said as he handed the young man a towel from the rack. “Make sure to drain that tub when you’re done.”

D’Art nodded as he took the towel. He stood, water splashing around his legs as he wrapped the towel around his waist. Porthos held a hand for him to grab as he climbed out of the tub.

“Wait,” Athos said. His hand fell on d’Art’s shoulder. “Where’d you get this?” His gloved fingers brushed over the crescent shaped scar on the boy’s back.

“From a horse,” d’Art said with a roll of his eyes.

“He must have missed that conversation,” Porthos reasoned as d’Art slipped behind a screen to change. He returned in a clean set of trousers, a blindingly white shirt, his hair combed back. The shirt collar was low, the drawstrings loose which left his neck on full display. Yet, that seemed to be the least of their worries as Athos’ eyes seemed to gravitate towards d’Art’s back.

“How long have you had that?” Athos asked.

“Since I was three,” d’Art said with a nervous shrug.

“And in the twenty years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen it,” Porthos sighed as he shook his head. “You’re impossible, d’Artagnan.”

“Thank you,” d’Art snickered as he gathered his jacket, scarf, and weapons. “I’ve got to clean these before I do anything else.” He waved at them as he left the chamber.

As Porthos went about draining the tub and Aramis collected the laundry basket, Athos stared after the young man who had left their presence. He didn’t hear his friends’ questions. His mind too full of his own warring confusion. The scar was one of his ways to learn if this _was_ the boy he’d seen as a second brother and there it had been. He stopped himself though.

There was still the issue of the time piece no one could account for.

* * *

Radha looked nice in the setting sunlight, her hair reflecting the burnt orange of the sky well against the pink of the low hanging clouds. It wasn’t unusual for d’Art to find himself admiring her figure from afar. He’d done it for a while now, even after they’d stopped being in…relations together. It still stunned him that they had been able to break off that easily and as smoothly. Especially now, after the lunacy between Porthos, Flea, and Charon.

“Hello Irish,” d’Art jeered as he bumped the girl with his shoulder. Usually, she’d take the joke as it was, smack him back for the bump. She didn’t this time. “What’s wrong?”

She peered at him through her red curls. “Athos was asking questions.”

“About?” he asked casually.

“You.”

D’Art lifted a brow in interest. He’d expected a few questions but he’d expected Athos to be straight forward about it. He hadn’t thought the man would go about asking Radha. He leaned against the wall by her side as he thought over what this move could mean.

“What’d he want to know?” he settled on asking.

“He asked about something Charon said,” she stated, her hands clenching her upper arms. “He then proceeded to ask about a time piece he claimed to be important.”

“A time piece,” d’Art murmured.

“What does it mean?”

“It…It was a present from my father,” d’Art whispered, his hand rising to cover his mouth. The young woman smiled fondly at him, understanding the need for secrecy. Even she hadn’t been told of his homeland in Gascony. He felt a bit guilty for not sharing that with her after sharing so many other things but at the look she was giving him, the guilt was washed away.

“And it was lost to you?”

“No,” he growled. “It was _taken_.” His hand raised to his bare neck, fingertips gliding over the jagged skin there. “The man who gave me this took it.”

“Has he been found since this…event?” she asked, her shoulders slumping around her as if to give herself cover.

“No.”

“Then…is it possible he’s alive?”

“Possibly.”

“Then…would you recognize him?”

“Quite possibly,” he admitted with a growl. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” she reasoned, a finger on her chin, “I just wondered, if you didn’t recognize the man, maybe you could find him by finding the time piece.”

“He probably sold it by now,” d’Art grumbled. “I _was_ almost six after all. It’s been twenty-four years since that man…” His voice croaked out on him and he resorted to glaring at the ground.

“He didn’t sell it,” Radha murmured.

“How can you be so sure?”

He watched her through his bangs as she pulled out a chain he’d never seen before. The chain was a utilitarian thing but what it held wasn’t. A decorative cross gleamed in the low light as rays of setting sunlight hit the rubies and emeralds encrusted in it.

“A man tried to kill me once,” she said. “I killed him first; watched the light fade from him.” She held the cross in her palm, her green eyes glowing as the gems bounced light into them. “I took this as a reminder.” She looked to him again. “He didn’t sell it.”

“Good,” d’Art said with a mean smirk on his face. “I want it back.”

“Describe it to me,” she pleaded as she stowed her trophy. “So I can tell you if he’s in Paris.”

He smiled. “It’s a simple thing. Not really a time piece in the normal sense. It’s more like a medal with an engraving on the back. ‘To my son, with love’ and such.”

“The color?”

“Silver.”

“I think I can find that.”

“My thanks.”

“Keep your thanks. Until I find it, I haven’t earned anything.”

“Hard bargain but agreed.”

They clasped hands and he pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Be safe, Irish.”

“You as well, Thief.”


	34. The Exiles: Part 1

“One thing you need to learn d’Artagnan,” Aramis sighed as his body rocked in time with the movements of his horse. “Don’t get involved.”

The young man shook his head as he capped his water flask and shoved it into his saddle bags. The two had been riding for days to collect a woman and her child by order of the Cardinal. Aramis had been unusually quiet, his thoughts keeping him busy, while d’Art questioned if he was curious about the assignment. Aramis was a bit curious, despite his claim otherwise, but after Charon’s hanging and Porthos’ – expected – silence, he wanted to keep himself as far from personal attachments concerning his work. Especially if the Cardinal was involved.

News had begun circling through the streets that the Cardinal had stopped seeing women. Ignoring the untrustworthy sources, Aramis had asked d’Art to have Radha look into the whispers. He’d been a bit shocked when d’Art said Radha was busy doing something for him already so he’d allowed the subject to drop.

He had nothing against the other sources that d’Art had on hand – sources that were reducing to only Radha and Charlotte after Charon’s trail. He just…had more faith in Radha and d’Art’s methods than anyone else. He liked Charlotte sure but he’d seen more of Radha as of late. He had been aware of the way Radha and d’Art seemed to hang about each other ever since Therron as well. Charlotte never stood as close to d’Art as Radha did. The scene with the Duchess of Savoy and the instance after Porthos’ wrongful arrest had only cemented a hunch that there was something between the two.

Radha’s chaste kiss to d’Art’s cheek as they’d left for the mission, her lips brushing over the young man’s ears as he leaned over his saddle so she didn’t have to hold herself on her toes, told him plenty. The two had been lovers once. Ended amicably when Aramis considered how well they worked around each other.

He’d have to ask Porthos when they returned.

Yes. He couldn’t _afford_ to get involved in missions when his friend was such a mystery to him.

Athos was no help either with his dancing about the subject of who d’Artagnan could be – or was depending on who one spoke to. Porthos’ frustration at their eldest friend had died down a bit since he’d yelled at Athos but to say it was still a sore subject was an understatement. Athos had returned to not speaking of his doubts but the way he stomped about the practice yard had not been missed. Radha’s disappearance on whatever she was currently chasing had left Athos whirling with his questions.

The mission was an almost welcome distraction from Athos’ muttered curses really. Fresh air was wonderful for the soul.

He had to do _something_ to get his mind off the missing gun d’Art had used to stop Charon, Athos’ stubborn refusal to listen, and d’Art’s own stubbornness causing everyone to butt heads. Maybe a screaming baby and an inconsolable woman would be able to do that for him.

The little church had a rustic appeal to it, surrounded by wildflowers and a random assortment of crops the priests used for meals. Everything was green save for the white walls of the church, the purple of the flowers, and the gray of the dirt road they rode in on.

He let d’Artagnan go in first, the boy’s need for answers making Aramis somewhat unwilling to be near him for a bit. Also, having two strange men approach a woman with child would only make her nervous. May as well have the younger of their little ‘party’ greet her first then move out once his own introduction was made.

The boy’s shout brought him running into the small church, a jolt of worry rushing through him at the tone. He was shocked when he saw the bleeding, dead priest surrounded by papers.

 _Well, this makes things interesting_ , he thought just as a woman’s scream punched at his ears. In a flash, he and d’Art were rushing around the church, leaping over a stone wall and firing at men. D’Art gave a yelp when his gun was shot from his hand, tumbling into the grass as Aramis rushed to the woman tripping over her skirts and the man Aramis had shot.

As the woman screamed, she fell to her knees crying for her child. As glad as Aramis was that this mission was no longer boring, something clenched at his heart as the young woman screamed.

It didn’t take long for d’Artagnan to gather himself again, calling his horse with a shrill whistle. The young man had once worried them all – Athos mainly – when he made it known that he preferred to not tie his horse until they were shown that it was for the best the animal wasn’t tied.

The hulking animal was one that Tréville had given the boy in repayment for helping save Athos from the noose. There had been a mean motive for giving him the horse no one had been able to train after he’d attacked Athos, naming him a murderer without checking facts with Athos’ friends first. The bloody creature had decided d’Art walked on water though and had just made Porthos and Aramis feel like complete idiots for not warning Tréville the boy had a way with horses. They’d tried to tell the Captain that they’d had no clue that the talent was present in the boy but were dismissed before they could get a word in edgewise. Zad was _affectionate_ to the young man to every other Musketeers’ chagrin.

And he came when he was called.

“I’m sure they’re heading to Paris,” Aramis huffed as d’Art mounted Zad in a whirl of motion that reminded Aramis of the times the boy had disappeared into high windows after a training session. “Stay near as you can to them while I figure out what’s going on here.”

“This doesn’t seem like a normal kidnapping to me,” d’Art whispered as he made Zad leg yield around Aramis.

Aramis sighed as he placed his hat on his shaking head. D’Art groaned at him before sending Zad off with a shout and a kick.

“Meet me at Bonacieux’s!” the boy called over his shoulder before he and the thundering mass of flesh known as Zad the Terror disappeared into the trees.

The knife at Aramis’ throat made him take pause as he stared at the woman they’d saved. He couldn’t even turn to face her without a knife being shoved his face? He was beginning to wish for the mission to return to being boring.

“Who are you?!” she hissed, stepping forward in as threatening a manner as she could manage.

Her elbows were locked as she held the small blade with both hands that were shaking. Her skin was pale and her curly hair was tied behind her head in a loose tail, a few strands freed from the tie thanks to the struggle. She was barely up to his nose but he decided to take the knife into heavy consideration as he backed away from its point.

“My name is Aramis, of the King’s Musketeers,” he said lifting his hat a bit in greeting – a habit he was thinking would be of little use in the situation. “I have been sent to escort you and your son to the palace.”

“Why?”

“I had hoped you would tell me,” he replied. He took a breath and went into as delicate an explanation of his assumptions as he could, walking her back towards the grave he’d seen her near before d’Art called Zad.

“What kind of woman do you _take_ me for?!” she growled, the knife point jabbing towards his neck as if to punch her words into him.

“I have no idea,” he said with all honesty. It had been a reasonable assumption to think she’d gone to a ball, gotten herself pregnant, and the man wanted her and the child to disappear quietly. Yet, standing before her now, the baby missing and a knife at his throat, he wasn’t sure he could continue believing his wayward thoughts.

“I’m faithful to my husband, Philippe Bernard!” she cried, launching herself at him. He caught the knife as he side stepped her attack, his other hand holding her wrist as he pried the weapon from her. He tossed the blade away with a rather flippant toss over his shoulder.

“If he is truly Henry’s father, where is he _now_?”

She looked to the grave.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis mumbled, pulling his hat form his head and combing a hand through his wavy hair. “That was tactless of me.”

“Just leave me alone,” she grumbled as she rushed past him, calling to the priest as she went.

“Don’t!” he yelled. She halted in her tracks, turning to look at him again. “Don’t go in there…”

She’d had enough pain in her day as it was.

* * *

If there was one thing Porthos disliked more than a bloody parade, it was what the King dared to call a hunt. Thrill of the chase? When everyone knew that more experienced hunters would catch a meal the day before and have it roasting for the King and Queen by the time the King rode into a clearing set up for a royal dinner party? Porthos found himself bored to tears as he and Athos followed the King on horseback as he chased a hawk more than he chased a boar.

Tréville had obviously given d’Art and Aramis the better job of the week considering those two at least got the chance to get out of Paris. He, Athos, and Tréville on the other hand were trapped with the King who couldn’t hunt to save his life.

This was a social party and everyone present knew this. This was a midday party in the out of doors and the lack of true walls just made the party more…novel. There was a bit of showmanship to as well considering the hawk trainer and the beautiful setup of the table. The tent next to the table was a place for the wives to relax while the men rode about like headless chickens in the woods.

Athos’ barking call however had Porthos instinctively pull his pistol from his waist. Athos only barked like that when he suspected trouble, preferring silence over chatter. Porthos wasn’t sure how Athos could possibly put up with his and Aramis’ background banter until d’Art had wormed his way into their close ranks. The boy was just as bad as them with his chatter but he had moments when silence was all one would get from him.

The silence was probably why Zad liked the lad so much. None of the other Musketeers could claim to have such a quite seat or gentle touch with any horse they rode. Porthos was still a bit frustrated that d’Art had hidden his ability with horses for so long but considering the lad’s history – the Court – Porthos couldn’t figure when d’Art had ridden a horse unless it was before he’d arrived in Paris. Though, given the Court and its ways, secrets were a protective blanket for many of the people living there.

He wished he could say it had been the same for Charon.

“It can’t be!” Tréville hissed as he dropped the spyglass. “Guards! Protect the King!”

Porthos dismounted quickly and growled at anyone who got in his way as he moved the Queen into the Royal tent, other Musketeers moving the King and the Cardinal through the flaps. The Queen, to her credit, had hiked her skirts as high as she could and moved with long strides to accommodate his own gait as he pressed a hand to her shoulder blades. The glass of wine in her hand didn’t lose a drop of liquid as she slipped into the tent.

He joined his Captain and Athos outside the line of spears and men as two riders came up to them. The man seemed to be the guard to the second, a woman who hid her face. The woman demanded to see the king, lifting her dark purple veil as she called for him. Louis, helpful as ever, had left the tent as soon as he’d heard her voice.

“I told you to never return,” the King whispered.

“I am in grave danger and have nowhere else to turn,” Marie de Medici stated, tears beading at her eyes.

“You are _banished_!” Louis screamed as he shoved past his line of guards. “You tried to steal my throne!” The woman gasped at him as if she wanted to explain herself but the King continued. “Now, I’m obliged to cut off your head for your sentence was for _life_ on _pain of death_ should you _ever_ return to France!”

To her credit, the former queen could beg in a believable manner. The woman was still rather stunning despite the years god only knew where. Porthos was almost sorry he had to hold back the woman from her son; memories of how he’d wished nothing more than to be with his mother as he screamed and kicked and cried. Though, King Louis was rather impressive as he held his ground against the woman’s words.

Porthos and Athos held the woman back while Tréville and the Cardinal dealt with the King within the tent. Porthos had never thought himself overly talkative except in specific situations. Waiting for the Captain and the Cardinal was one of those. Hanging about Athos and his cloudy demeanor was another.

 _Almost wish d’Art and Aramis were here_ , he thought idly as he listened to Marie de Medici’s head guard call them unchivalrous – whatever the hell that was.

“I’m disappointed,” the man stated blandly.

“You’re not dead yet,” Porthos shrugged, trying to ignore the way Athos smirked. “Bright side.”

“You think I’m scared of the King’s toy soldiers?” the man scoffed. Porthos hated people who scoffed; d’Art aside considering d’Art had enough sense to use the ability properly.

“For a glorified boot boy you got an awful lot to say.”

The singing of metal moving against its housing screamed from the man’s waist as he attempted to lunge at Porthos. A responding chorus screeched up from behind him as his fellows readied their lances and swords. He and Athos had fallen into ready positions without hesitation, hands on hilts and a foot slid back from the attacker to keep from injuring themselves on the draw.

“Draw, if you wish,” Athos barked, his eyes hidden under his hat’s brim. “It will be our duty – and pleasure incidentally – to kill you.”

“Vincent,” the fallen Queen called. “I’m weary…Gentlemen, I assure you I have no argument with you.”

Another clattering of steel sounded about them as everyone returned to their original positions. Vincent was glaring at them as the Cardinal exited the tent, the former Queen collected in her green gown. She held herself as if she were in Court, ruling over everyone as she had years ago. The Cardinal was just as collected as he claimed the King to be busy and unable to help. Vincent – the pushy bugger – pressed that it was thanks to God’s grace that Marie de Medici had survived the last attempt on her life; continuing that his men were too few in number to deal with another attempt.

“His Majesty’s decision is final.”

 _Good_ , Porthos thought. _Now, to make sure this woman leaves._


	35. The Exiles: Part 2

Aramis had had easier trips to Paris. Given, he’d been the one on horseback instead of on foot but out of sheer decency he couldn’t rightly leave a widowed woman who had just lost her child to bandits to walk. Not when his horse was sound and calm. Also, it was apparently safer to have Agnès off the ground where villagers could attack her.

The Devil and his Consort? Women crossing themselves at the sight of Agnès’ face? Agnès calling it superstition?

That’s what it was.

Utterly. Idiotic.

Meanwhile, he was sending prayers that the next ‘simple mission’ was going to end up on Athos and Porthos’ laps rather than his. He had plenty of issues alone with the typical guard duty and following on the hunts that the King fooled himself into thinking he was doing well with.

* * *

Horses were easier to deal with. People were too complicated.

D’Artagnan had ridden after the kidnappers for hours, keeping a distance between them all so he could avoid being spotted. It hadn’t been a difficult ride either – the speckled mare (he was sure it was a mare) his uncle (he didn’t have a name but he was sure he had an uncle) owed had had more difficult gaits (he was positive) than the big Friesian he was currently riding.

He had nothing against Zad though. Zad was a perfectly lovely horse. He could do tricks if prompted correctly and had been quick to adapt to how d’Art preferred to ride. It had only taken the young man a week to teach Zad to come when called.

The men he and Zad were following however were…odd. Being from the Court of Miracles, d’Artagnan couldn’t quite grasp why someone would take a baby from its mother in broad daylight. He could understand ransom demands but not when the kidnapping involved a woman living in a church. Especially not a widow living in a church.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew what a woman playing with her babe by a grave could mean. Also, the grave was too close to the church to have been anyone who could have afforded a plot in a cemetery. He knew a few things about sitting near a grave too.

He had that experience under his belt as of the last two years.

The two men sauntered into a building on the outskirts of Paris, the baby having calmed once the horses fell into a walk. It made sense a child wouldn’t like being bumped and jostled about. Especially not when his mother was gone.

Now…how to tell Aramis where the child was without taking his eyes off the…Ah.

“Charlotte,” he sang up to the second story windows of another crumbling building.

“Blighter!” the young woman hissed, her hair falling over her shoulder as she glared at him. “What the hell are you _doing_ here?”

“Come down and I’ll explain.”

* * *

Despite all the best efforts, Athos found himself standing in the woods after Tréville led her Majesty Marie de Medici into the palace.

Vincent was not going to last very long if he continued; that much was clear. Marie hadn’t chastised him for killing the second assassin before they could question him but then again, why would she? Vincent had done his job in protecting her. It wasn’t as if it should be particularly in her interest to know _who sent the assassins_ no was it.

Begging of forgiveness from the former Queen and Louis running off like the child he was aside, there was far more worry over who would want her dead. Everyone knew of how Marie nearly took the throne, nearly destroying Paris in the process.

“Don’t you think, that as her head guard, he’d _want_ to know who sent men after his queen?” Athos asked Porthos as the body was dragged off to a cart by two other Musketeers. “Why kill if there’s no need?”

“Out of control he was,” Porthos muttered.

“Good soldiers are never out of control,” Athos stated blandly.

“That a prod at me and Aramis or at yourself?”

“Why not d’Art?” Athos shot back over his shoulder, attempting to keep his tone light. It wasn’t the right decision to joke about where d’Art stood in their ranks apparently. Porthos glared at him, fingers rolling over his sword hilt.

“Don’t drag him into this,” Porthos grumbled.

It lacked the primitive snarling that had been present since Athos had let it be known he was still trying to debunk the claim that he knew d’Art; that d’Art was someone he wanted to be alive more than anything. It didn’t help that Radha seemed to have disappeared on him completely so he couldn’t apologize to her either.

“It was an attempt at levity,” Athos sighed as he wandered over to the beaten path their target had rushed over. “Vincent is one of the best soldiers there is; why lose control now?”

“Weaponry of a small army too,” Porthos stated, striding off with the renewed conversation with ease. “Yet, not a single shot hit its mark.”

“Not a scratch on anyone either,” Athos concurred.

Yes. Simple conversation over a typical life-and-death situation. They faced these all the time but something felt off about this one. Probably Porthos’ unwillingness to let Athos’ words of a death be true still gnawing at Athos’ stomach perhaps. Maybe it was Athos’ own personal doubt in his actions rather than the realization that he’d based his believes on years old information from villagers he’d only watched from a distance.

“And no damage to the trees either. There’s just…” Porthos threw his hands up at the ground that was clear of anything resembling a gun fight. “Nothing.”

“No used wadding,” Athos pointed out.

“And no stray musket balls.”

Athos sighed, tugging at his hat as he stomped up the incline. This was going to be painful. Porthos followed him in silence, both on foot and on horseback.

“Nothing but a fireworks display,” he declared to Tréville once he and Porthos and returned to the palace. “Either that or they are the worst assassins on this side of a channel.”

“Find out why,” Tréville ordered simply. “Last time I went against that woman, she threw me in jail. I’d appreciate not having to return.”

“The gunmen would have talked sooner or later,” Porthos pointed out. “That may be why Vincent killed them.”

“Keep an eye on him, and Marie if possible.”

* * *

Aramis hadn’t expected the hospitality of Constance when he and Agnès stumbled to her door. He welcomed it, but he hadn’t expected it. Not after the incident with Porthos and d’Art’s retreating from them for weeks; and that was before he came in with a woman whose child had just been taken. He and Agnès were both road weary, his hair in need of a good wash after being trapped beneath his hat in the sun all day. Agnès…he didn’t dare assume what she may require; not when Constance couldn’t imagine the other woman’s pain.

“Anything?” Constance asked as he stepped into the dining room as quietly as the floors and his boots would allow.

He shook his head, knowing what she was inquiring after. Sometime after d’Art had wandered back to the Garrison, Aramis had become increasingly aware of how…protective Constance seemed to have become of the young man. He wasn’t sure what had clued him in past the stern words she’d imparted or the cool glares she’d given.

It could be the way she held herself around them – her back straighter and her eyes brighter. It could be the way d’Art had come to allow her into his own personal field – a circle that Aramis knew even Porthos lost access to on occasion. It could also be the way Constance seemed to look at the boy or the way d’Art looked at her; a shared admiration that only they understood.

Aramis had no clue.

The near quiet – Constance’s attempts to get Agnès to eat something – was interrupted as a quick rapping-tapping at the door rang through the house.

“I have it,” Aramis stated, a hand rising to signal for Constance to remain at her post as he ducked off. He almost missed her executive nod at his signal, he was moving so quickly. The door almost broke from its hinges as he wrenched it open.

“Charlotte,” he breathed, staring wide-eyed at the rather bedraggled looking girl before him. She was panting, her hands against the door jamb as she leaned against the building. “Your cheeks are simply glowing.”

“Bugger you and your phony compliments,” she huffed, her voice cracking slightly. “Oh…Thank goodness.”

“Thank what?”

She held up a hand, a finger pressed against his lips, his mustache tickling against his skin.

“d’Art sent me.”

“Wonderful,” he mumbled past the digit against his lips.

It took a few minutes for Charlotte to inform them of where d’Art was, Constance grabbing her cloak in a whirl as Charlotte said something about showing her the way until Aramis found himself alone with Agnès again. He sighed, taking a seat next to the distraught woman, knowing he was completely out of his depth.

He wasn’t completely sure how he managed to get Agnès talking to him but he welcomed the sound of her contralto voice against the cracking fire in the hearth. He even welcomed the uncomfortable subject of his family, or lack thereof. He didn’t like thinking about how his father had wanted him to be a priest – not when he knew he was better with a gun than with prayer. He couldn’t find a woman he wanted to remain with for the rest of his life; especially not one that wasn’t already…otherwise engaged.

“Have you ever felt it? Love? Real, true love?” Agnès asked in the most caring voice Aramis had heard since his mother.

“The kind that makes one feel as if living is pointless without the other person?’ he mused past the spoon of soup he was about to ladle into his mouth. He paused, the spoon falling into the broth as he contemplated. “I was sixteen. We were to marry but…” He shrugged. “Didn’t work out.” A breath. “She changed her mind. I was heartbroken.”

“You haven’t loved since?”

“Will you tell me why those people ran from the sight of you if I answer?”

“It’s nobody’s business,” she claimed though the tears spoke louder than she did.

“How can I help if you won’t trust me, or my brothers?” he asked.

“I’ve only ever trusted one man,” she admitted.

Well, it was a start.

They talked from then on about the love of Agnès’ life. It was a bit surprising to Aramis that a family would leave a child to the wilds of the world but he knew it wasn’t uncommon. It struck him as odd that the man’s mother – ashamed as she may have been – bothered visiting in secret. His heart went out to the poor woman before him who’d married in secret only to end up watching her fellow villagers beat the father of her child to death. It was ridiculous, people beating a man for no real reason.

“I promise, I will do all in my power to return your son safely to you,” he vowed.

* * *

Constance couldn’t help but notice that Charlotte was quick to disappear again. She had become accustomed to hearing of the young women d’Art had for his extra errands as well as seeing them about. She’d only glimpsed Charlotte; Radha had been the one who’d bothered to become friendly.

“ _d’Art speaks highly so I thought it…_ prudent _to introduce myself_ ,” had been what Radha had said all those weeks ago after the incident with Porthos and the Court of Miracles. Constance had excused the intrusion of her husband’s home – it was _his_ home yet he wasn’t present most of the time now so why should _she_ be bothered by a young woman who was friend of her lodger visiting unannounced?

“What are we looking for again?” she asked in a whisper.

“A way in. A way out. The baby’s room,” he mused, his voice raked by a rumble that Constance found handsome. He’d been more open with his speech around her lately and she appreciated it. The lessons were the highlight of her days, the feel of d’Art’s hands on her waist as he corrected her stance lighting something in her belly that she’d not felt in ages.

“Anything that helps then?” she murmured.

Her eyes drifted between him and the building he was staring at. It was plain but it held such importance. Strange how she found herself not caring what the palace or her husband’s cloths looked like anymore.

“I _can_ fight,” she pressed. He looked at her, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth before he shook his head. “You don’t trust me then?” She tried to ignore the bitter tang that edged out of her mouth as she spoke. She’d meant to only sound sarcastic but it still hurt that the one person willing to teach her how to handle herself had so little faith in her abilities.

“If you were harmed, I’d never forgive myself,” he replied, his eyes fixed on hers through the curtain of his bangs.

The scarf was brushing against his bottom lip as he spoke, hiding what she knew to be there. She wondered if he was ashamed of his scar or of how he’d gotten it, for what must have been the hundredth time. She shook her head with a soft sigh.

“Whenever Agnès speaks of Henri… To love something over one’s own life,” she mused. “I hope I get to feel love that strong.”

“You’ll have your own children soon enough,” he rumbled as they watched someone knock at the door.

“If it’s meant to be,” she mused as the door opened. They watched as a young woman left as another traded places with her.

“Who are they?”

“Wet nurses,” she said, her eyes rolling at him. “How do you think the baby’s been feeding?” Her eyes shifted back to him. “What?” He smiled at her. “Oh! No. _No_.”

“Yes.”

“I _can’t_.”

“Why?”

She bared her teeth at him as she fisted her hands in her cloak. “I haven’t got any _milk_ ,” she hissed, her cheeks burning at the words. “How can I be a wet nurse without… _that_?”

“Improvise.”

By morning, they’d arranged the entire stupid plan. Aramis and Agnès accompanied them back to the washer’s street, Agnès holding a blanket to her chest. Agnès traded the blanket over to her as Aramis escorted her away, d’Art’s hand on Constance’s lower back.

“Thought you didn’t want me in there,” Constance muttered.

“That was before we came up with this plan,” he said. “Be careful.”

“Any other useful advice?” she grumbled as he slipped off like the wraith he was.

The pistol being held at her face was…somewhat expected. She claimed herself a wet nurse, being sure to keep her back straight and face impassive. There wasn’t any reason for the men before her to be easy going; not with a kidnapped child in their so-called care. She claimed the other girl was sick as she was lead up to the second floor – remembering quite vividly how Aramis and d’Art had talked the girl into leaving.

Truth hurts apparently.

“You’ve got a nice backside,” the leader – she supposed – cackled as he gave her a firm slap. She ground her teeth as she followed, not appreciating the way the man looped his arm around her waist to press her against himself.

“She told me you were a charmer,” she smiled, pinching his cheek. “Now, hands off. I’ve got work to do.”

The girl before her handed the child over. She ignored how the woman had rolled her eyes at her as she smiled down at the baby in her arms.

“I have a message from someone who loves you very much, Henri,” she cooed as she waved the blanket out the window. She made sure to smack it against the wall nine times so the boys would be able to know what they were facing. Hopefully the boys would be able to do this quickly. Gunfire and infants wasn’t a combination she was inclined to learn of.

* * *

Porthos and Athos had been watching the former queen’s room all night. Athos had muttered about Vincent’s interesting choice in a bedmate while Porthos thought it rather…He found it stupid. Dawn had peeked past its starry curtain when Vincent and Marie left the castle through the means of a servant staircase, their heads hidden under hoods. If Porthos hadn’t seen them, he doubted he would have believed it was the King’s Mother he saw walking in the streets.

“Early for a stroll,” Athos mumbled as they followed the two.

“The washer’s streets no less,” Porthos concurred. “Wait…What the devil are those two doing here?”

“Those two?”

“d’Art and Aramis,” he whispered as he jerked his head to where the two were standing.

“Coincidence?” Athos asked, seemingly hopeful.

“Not likely,” Porthos sighed as he marched over to the two who were hiding behind green curtains. There was a woman with them. A woman who wasn’t Constance or anyone else Porthos could have tied to d’Art.

Must be Aramis’ fault then.

“Is that who I think it is?” Aramis asked.

“Marie de Medici,” Athos confirmed.

“We followed her here,” Porthos grunted. “From the palace.”

“That’s ridiculous,” the woman, Agnès she was called, whispered. “That’s just Philippe’s mother!”

“You’re certain?” Aramis asked.

“ _Yes!_ ”

Definitely Aramis’ fault then.

“Constance is in there still,” d’Art stated.

“You dragged her into _another_ bloody mission?” Athos hissed, his hand rising to catch at d’Art’s scarf only to stop to fist itself in the air. “What is she _doing_ in there?”

“Finding the baby,” Aramis stated.

Truly Aramis’ fault.

* * *

Constance wasn’t sure who the woman was but she knew that the shivers running down her spine were things she should be listening to. Yet, she listened to the Woman in Black whisper to Henri about being strong and wise and celebrated, questions rushing through her mind at what those words could imply.

She wasn’t sure who the woman was but she truly wasn’t a good mother, considering how she readily shoved the child at Constance. Constance asked if Henri was her grandson only to receive a cold reply. It wasn’t her business apparently.

Of course, with her current need to keep up an appearance, she lowered her blouse. As she held Henri to her breast, she found herself hoping – wishing really – that if she _were_ to have a child, that the babe would have a brave and strong father. For some reason, she couldn’t see her husband as a father since she’d ended up around d’Artagnan and the others. She could see any one of those four men as lovers, husbands, or even fathers.

“I hope you know how much you’re loved,” she whispered to the babe against her skin. “Even by those who barely know you.”

* * *

The breach had been quick and somewhat simple. Athos knocked and made sure he wasn’t visible from the sight hole while Aramis and Porthos flanked the door. Porthos got to have the first shot in as soon as the door opened. Athos slammed the door open onto the second man and Aramis followed them both into the cavernous building.

D’Art had gone to find his own way in so Aramis wasn’t at all surprised that the boy managed to get to the second floor card table before them, already wrestling two of the four men to the ground. Aramis stormed past the commotion, dealing with the guards of the baby’s room as quickly as he could.

“Don’t Musketeers ever knock?!” Constance huffed at him as she blushed furiously at him. He attempted to not stare – finding himself being quite good at averting his eyes – as she turned her back to him.

“My apologies but we’re pressed for time here.” He glanced back at the brawl in the hallway to find d’Art kicking one man out a window and Athos and Porthos struggling to get their opponents down. “Constance,” he groaned.

“Take him!”

 _Oh yes, have the trained soldier hold the baby,_ he thought ruefully as he stepped up to her, laying his sword on the bed. _This will end well._

“So you’re the one all this fuss is about, huh?” he cooed to the child, wondering idly if the noise outside was going to set the child off. As if little Henri could read Aramis’ mind, he burst in a fit.

“He’s crying,” he attempted as Constance fixed her clothes. _Take your bloody time, why don’t you?!_

“Sing,” she muttered. “Agnès said he likes that.”

So he sang, dancing about the room as well because he dimly remembered mothers tended to rock their babies but wasn’t sure what constituted too much rocking. Constance was trying to tell him about Marie and he cut his singing off to tell her he knew, exasperation at her interruptions biting at him. The babe was quiet thanks to the singing.

“The baby!” a man with a fairly familiar face shouted from the door. He had a blade in his hand, pointed towards Aramis that looked a lot more terrifying than any blade Aramis could remember being pointed at him. “Now!”

Constance had Aramis’ sword in her hand then, her hand holding it with a strange assurance that struck Aramis as _practiced_. Her opponent was quick but most of his stroke depended on strength; strength that was sending Constance bouncing towards walls as she spun to keep the heavy sword she held between herself and the man’s sword.

“Take Henri!” Aramis yelled. She didn’t listen. “Constance!”

She spun back to be in front of him and the child, backing them all into a corner as her opponent stared at her aghast. The astonishment left though as he laughed at her. That, apparently, was the _wrong_ thing to do for before Aramis could blink, she’d advanced on him, catching his shoulder. She then swung low, her body dropping with the blade, to slice at the man’s leg. A clatter and a _zing_ of metal on metal and Aramis watched as the man’s sword flew from his hand right before Constance cuffed him upside the head with the guard of her sword.

“Good work,” he mumbled. “Where’d you learn that?”

“What are you waiting for?!?” she cried. He bolted out the door as quick as his legs would carry him and the precious load he was carrying.

He didn’t stop to hear Constance and d’Art argue with each other – though he doubted it would last long considering how thoroughly Constance had handled the kidnapper.

* * *

The win was short lived, d’Artagnan found as he followed the others into the training yard, in step after Tréville. The afternoon after they’d rescued the child – of  _royal blood_ – Tréville had sent messengers to find them all. Agnès and Henri were hidden away with Constance, Aramis acting as a guard but Aramis too had been dragged into this little meeting. D’Art wasn’t exactly sure where Athos and Porthos had been.

All he knew was that he’d been found in the marketplace after he’d gone looking for Radha. It had been a while since he’d seen her and he’d been hopeful of an update when he’d gotten one of her notices to meet a few days back. It had become a custom of their meetings to come to the meeting place as often as one could until the meeting was held – unless there was just too much of a risk that the subject of the meeting would disappear before that plan could be thought through.

That was why certain colors meant certain things. A green tie was asking for a meeting, on any possible subject but little urgency. A brown tie was to indicate goods – usually money or information – gotten. A yellow tie usually meant jewels had been found and needed to be moved. A blue tie was to tell of a possible illness or to use a different location. The locations were usually the same alleyways they’d used for reconnaissance of a wide spread place or in the Court. The meetings were usually held outside of the Court though to ensure no one was going to try to poach the missions. A red tie was a need for an urgent meeting, any subject was up for grabs.

He tucked the faded red scarf into his jacket again as Tréville informed them of the change in plans. The Captain planned on giving the child to the Cardinal, to avoid giving the King’s Mother a chance to steal the throne.

D’Artagnan wasn’t stupid. He knew what that course of action would entail. This was a political nightmare for those of royalty – or anyone also looking to have more power than they held. Agnès and the child would disappear – very likely be killed – and Marie would be required to return to her banishment.

It was strange how a parent with standing in society would willingly hide a child from the world because they were malformed. He realized he was approaching this from the viewpoint of a person who’d been taken in by criminals but it still struck him as strange. For every faking beggar in the Court, there were three deformed or otherwise asymmetrical people living there. He couldn’t see anything wrong with people who were different, not when he was so strange himself. He only spoke to people he cared for and hid his throat because the scar there made him physically sick.

Hiding a child from the world because one feared how the people would react to a deformed baby struck him as stupid and foolhardy.

After Tréville disappeared back into his office, d’Art had wanted to return to the meeting place, leave the red tie again along with a white tie to indicate he knew the need for a meet and had tried to come only to be left waiting. Yet, he’d stood with Athos and Porthos, waiting for Aramis to fetch the child.

“He’s gone,” Athos called, his voice betraying his expectation of this stupidity.

“What’re we gonna do?” Porthos asked.

“Find him,” Athos sighed. “Before he gets himself killed.”

D’Art sighed, falling into step after his friends only to stop when he spotted the meeting place he had been standing at an hour before.

“What’re you-?” Athos called after him only to stop when Porthos smacked a hand against his chest.

“He’s setting up a meet,” d’Art heard Porthos explain in a hushed tone as he tied the red cloth to a just in the alley wall. He pulled a chunk of his shirt hem free and added it to the tie.

“Sorry,” he murmured as he rushed back to their sides.

“Radha or Charlotte doing dirty work for you?” Porthos joked.

“Radha. And it’s not dirty work.”

“Then what is it?” Athos asked, seemingly interested for once. “She have some information to pass to Tréville?”

“No,” d’Art stated. “To me.”

Athos shot him a look over his shoulder, a brow quirked up in interest.

“It’s personal.”

“Personal?” Athos blurted.

“Leave it,” Porthos growled. “He’ll tell us when he’s ready.”

“When will that be?” Athos asked, his voice not aimed at either of them.

“When I have what I need to know,” d’Art whispered back though he too avoided Athos’ eyes.


	36. The Exiles: Part 3

Athos had expected a moment of stupidity from Aramis the moment he’d seen him _carrying_ the baby in question, his sword not on his belt but in Constance’s hands. The expectation that Aramis was going to do something stupid had come about partly because Tréville had stated he had paperwork. The main part of his belief though stemmed from his knowledge of Aramis and because he’d expected it the way he expected d’Art to disappear on them on occasion.

Part of him was a bit concerned that d’Art seemed to be avoiding them as of late – him mostly. He had a sneaking suspicion it was because of his own refusal to believe Aramis and Porthos’ words; like d’Art was giving him the space to puzzle through the issue at hand. D’Art hadn’t given him any fuss about his speaking to Radha either. Speaking to Radha had only led Athos to wonder where the old time piece could have gotten to.

Everyone in the Regiment agreed that d’Art was nothing but loyal, though he could be a bit feral if given a chance. He’d be protective of his fellows but there was still the high chance that said fellows would have to pull d’Art away from whoever it was that made him bare his fangs. Tréville had come to like the boy despite d’Art’s unwillingness to share – not that that was a new personality trait. Besides, d’Art brought good intelligence on the inner workings of the streets a Musketeer couldn’t gain access to.

Hopefully, the boy would keep his contacts even when he’d earned his commission for the hundredth bloody damned time. Yes, Athos wanted d’Art to have a pauldron, to have the King’s blessings to be a Musketeer. He liked the boy, his own reservations about the boy’s identity aside. He may not want to believe he was Charles grown up but he couldn’t continue shoving d’Art away; not when d’Art would let him.

They’d caught up to Aramis rather quickly thanks to his not being able to travel very far with a woman and her child tagging along. Aramis would likely want to send them to Spain, where he had friends who could take care of a woman and her child so there would be only a few people he could speak to in that regard. Adding the need to secret Agnès and Henri away to the mix meant even fewer people. Agnès would probably want to go home too so there would be a delay due to Aramis having to convince her to do as he said.

To keep the child safe from manipulations and greed, Agnès wouldn’t be able to return home. Aramis would have to lay out the facts to her in vivid detail if he was going to get her to listen to him. Athos knew that wouldn’t take long to do but it would certainly be a lot to process.

“This is the place,” d’Art said as Porthos lead them through the small, ramshackle market outside the city walls.

“Yeah,” Porthos agreed. “Best place to come if you want quick transport out of France.”

“Fairly reasonable prices no less,” d’Art murmured.

“How would-?” Porthos asked, his voice strangling in his throat as his eyes bulged at his young friend. D’Art sent him a cool smirk. “Never mind. I don’t wanna know.”

They split up a bit to look over the crowds and to not stand out quite as much as they did together. Two men with the King’s sigil on their shoulders and a young man with a scarf on in the middle of summer tended to draw eyes they’d all learned.

“Porthos,” d’Art called softly, Athos barely able to hear him over the clamor about them. He followed as the boy trailed over to a cart full of barrels, greeting the Musketeer and woman hiding behind it.

“I’m not going back,” Agnès declared.

“I’m not handing them over,” Aramis chorused over her words.

“That baby’s an heir to the _throne_ , Aramis,” d’Art hissed. “They’ll try you for treason.”

“I made a promise,” Aramis insisted. Athos smirked, having expected such a thing.

“Then we’d better help you,” he said with a soft rumble in his voice.

He was trying to not laugh at the idiocy his friend was showing considering the situation. He’d never admit that he’d smiled at the sight of the empty room in Paris. Well, not to anyone who’d find it inappropriate.

“Didn’t really think we were gonna take the baby did you?” Porthos chuckled.

In that instant, d’Art smiled and Athos thought the world had clicked back into place. All was right, situation aside, and Athos found he liked it that way. He liked d’Art with them all, smiling along with them, fight by their sides, telling them his mind. He hoped this moment would continue for a long while. He’d apologize to d’Art for his actions, his stupidity. He’d let the issues slide away. Just as long as that brilliant smile continued to light the way.

“If you’d told us, we might have been able to come up with a _proper_ plan,” Athos sighed as he went to inspect the barrels.

“Right. Sorry.”

“No, no. Let’s keep it suicidal,” Athos muttered.

“Don’t get involved?” d’Art whispered to Aramis. “That’s what you said. How’s that working out for you?”

“Things just got complicated,” Porthos hissed. “Vincent’s here.”

“Damn,” d’Art snarled. He looked at Agnès with an abashed expression. “Apologies.”

Agnès shook her head as they watched Vincent and an absurd number of armed men stalk through the camp before they tromped off to the bridge. Once the men were gone, the four of them crowded together to form a plan.

“We can’t just distract them and whisk Agnès and Henri away,” d’Art stated with a finality Athos had thought only Tréville could manage. “We have to make them stop looking for them.”

“Are you suggesting what I think you are?” Porthos asked.

“Fake a death,” d’Art said with a shrug. “We’ve got all the ingredients here.”

“Armed men who are looking for a child,” Athos reasoned through. “Armed men trying to protect the child in question. But short of pretending to dump him a camp fire, I don’t see how we’re going to kill him.”

D’Art held a finger to his lips for a second, trailing it to his ear. They went silent and Athos could tell they were straining to hear what it was that d’Art had noticed before them.

“The river,” Porthos breathed.

“Infants and water make a bad mix,” Aramis murmured, his eyes worried. “But…Agnès.”

“Send her across the bridge,” d’Art whispered. “We’ll take care of the rest.”

* * *

“Next time I bribe someone, remind me to bring more money,” Aramis hissed as he cradled Henri closer to his chest. Agnès had made it across the bridge without a fuss but the man Aramis had bribed to take her and Henri to Spain had been given a ‘gift’ by Vincent.

“You should be wiser in your investments,” d’Artagnan grumbled. “What now? How do we handle this?”

There was a pop as Athos dragged a cork from a barrel, a dark liquid splashing against his hand and the cart for a moment before he replaced the cork.

“Brandy,” Athos smiled. “Rather good Armanac actually.”

“ _Athos_ ,” Aramis hissed. “Now is not the time.”

Athos glanced at him, tilting his head with an expression that stated _exactly_ how he felt about Aramis’ comment. For Athos, any time while one was awake was time to drink but there was something else in the way Athos’ eyes glinted underneath his hat.

“Oh,” Aramis mumbled. “I see.”

Porthos chuckled, placing his hat over his head before he and d’Art hefted a barrel each over a shoulder.

“What a waste,” Porthos grunted.

He tossed his barrel with a small roar into the closest fire, d’Art shooing people away once his hands were free again. The resulting explosion gave rise to quite an impressive amount of smoke that Athos used to their advantage. In an instant, he’d switched Henri for a bundle of cloth with a small rock wrapped within and shoved Aramis onto a horse.

He kicked the horse into a canter, aiming for the bridge he already knew would have men on each side. It didn’t take long for him to find himself trapped on the bridge, unwilling to run over the men on the ground before him or take on the men and Vincent on horseback behind him. Not with his arms so full.

“Hand him over!”

“Or _what_?!?” he bellowed back.

“Or I take him by force,” Vincent snarled.

It took two seconds but it felt like an eternity. The men on foot dragged him from the horse, forgetting he had something precious in his hands until it flew over their heads and into the river, blankets and all. He’d been so wrapped up in what he was doing, he barely registered Agnès’ screams until she was beside him, trying to leap into the rushing river.

“No!” he yelped as he pulled her close, struggling against her writhing.

It was wrong to lie to her but, it had to be done. D’Art was right that they couldn’t just sneak them away. Not with Vincent so close. Not with so much at stake either. He held her close so she could cry as he screamed at Vincent, asking what more he could want.

They were left alone but he couldn’t stop himself from noticing it was d’Artagnan who was riding off in the distance while Athos and Porthos stood waiting.

* * *

There were few times that Tréville found himself almost enjoying telling someone there had been a death. He was grieved by the loss of a baby – no child should die that young – but Marie was a strange creature to deal with and so he relished telling her the news. Hating Marie was one of the few things he and Armand Jean du Plessis Cardinal de Richelieu found common ground on. Tréville also doubted that the Cardinal found anything less than a slight prick at his chest at the news of an infant dying but again, telling Marie her coup d’état was not going to happen was something to relish.

He wouldn’t bother pointing out that his three best men had been lacking their fourth when he’d been informed. Especially since the lad returned with them in time for the Cardinal to tell them it was Vincent who’d been trying to kill the former queen.

“Go on then you four,” he sighed. “Get on.”

* * *

“You didn’t want to give him back, did you?” d’Art was whispering. Athos tried to not listen but he found it difficult to ignore d’Artagnan lately.

“That obvious?” Constance whispered back.

“Not every day you save the King’s life,” Porthos chuckled.

“He’ll never be king but he’ll be far happier than the man who is,” Athos whispered. They watched as Aramis said his good byes, earning a kiss from the woman they’d helped.

“I think you’re losing your touch,” d’Art laughed.

“Shut up.”


	37. Confession from Grief and Blood

Tréville stood with his feet a little more than shoulder width apart, his blue cape limp in his hands. His fingers rolled between a light grip and a tight grip as he stared down at the body before him. It was a young woman with startling, wavy hair that looked like fire despite the mud clumping in it. Her clothes were patched and a bit big on her thin – yet still healthy – frame. Her green eyes were still open, staring into space as her slack jaw showed the barest hint of teeth.

As he bent to lay his cape over her body, he spotted his men tightening their circle against the crowd that had been gathering. No blades were being drawn but he hadn’t missed the uneasy expressions on his men’s faces. He knew those looks; understood the fear behind their eyes. He hadn’t missed their whispers either.

_“You think he knows?”_

_“How’s he going to take this?”_

_“Isn’t she…his friend?”_

_“I think so…I’ve seen them together.”_

No, Tréville hadn’t missed a single thing his men were saying. He tended to not miss much his men said or did anymore. Not since the Three Inseparables barged into his life. It had never been safe to miss anything concerning his men but when Athos, Aramis, and Porthos were concerned it was downright dangerous. Since they’d added d’Art, things had gotten all the more so.

Though, Tréville couldn’t quite blame the young man for the…noted increase of odd instances since d’Art had reentered his life, entered the lives of his men, he hadn’t thought he would be staring down at a girl he’d seen with d’Art and his men. Not when she lay dead at his feet, her throat gaping from a cut that spanned from her ear to her clavicle.

The light blue of his cape molded itself around her face as his fingers slipped from the cloth. He scrubbed a gloved hand over his face with a heavy sigh. D’Art was off with the Three Idiots doing…something. Tréville had a suspicions that it had something to do with the baby and his mother but he didn’t want to know about it. He was happy to let this situation fix itself the way the boys would fix it. The Cardinal didn’t even want to know where the baby might end up.

As long as Marie de Medici was left unable to take over France, no one gave a damn what happened to the child or his mother.

“Captain?” Beaufort called past the line of men. His fellows had allowed him through a bit but they had remained pressed close to keep any of the civilians out.

“If he’s not with you, leave,” Tréville growled as he looked over his shoulder at the man. There was a bit of scuffling as Beaufort slipped back from the line. Within a moment, d’Art was almost shoved past the line, his face pulled in a frown.

“Captain?” d’Art asked.

Tréville waved him over, his face grim at the thought of what he was doing, what he was going to reveal to the boy. He had only called for the boy due to his connections and knowledge of the city and its occupants. It was only fair to inform the boy of the girl first if she truly was a friend of his. Tréville had heard his men talk about the fiery haired young woman who pulled the young recruit’s attentions.

A girl like her was hard to ignore.

D’Art cocked his head at Tréville but remained silent as the elder man looked at him. Part of the old soldier was trying to gauge how this situation would go. Would d’Art cry? Would he scream? Would he – god forbid – shut down and disappear? There was no way for Tréville to know having so little interaction with the young man.

He knew how his men would react; the Dangerous Trio especially. Aramis would pray, shed silent tears, and demand justice be held once the girl was buried with proper rites. Porthos would growl and snarl before he would lash out, demanding vengeance. Athos….Athos would drink. A body would appear one day but Athos would deny involvement until he couldn’t.

But d’Art wasn’t those three. He was like them in many ways but he wasn’t them. There was also the concern was that this girl was one of d’Art’s connections. One who got the boy to smile on occasion from what Tréville had seen from his balcony, his office window, from a distance. He feared vengeance.

“d’Art,” Tréville stated in a soft voice. “You need to be the first person outside myself and the men here to know as is only fair. I do, however, wish to ask a boon of you.”

D’Art raised a brow at him but nodded approval at hearing the catch.

“Don’t run off immediately,” Tréville said, a plea in his voice. He ignored the side long looks over his men’s shoulders at the tone.

The young man’s brow went a bit higher. He nodded again, a slow and jerky movement. There was acceptance there but a cloud of confusion still masked how willing he was to listen to the request.

Tréville pulled his cloak back from the girl’s head, dragging the cloth past her low cut collar. He kept his eyes fixed on the young man. Flashes of emotion rushed over the boy’s face as he too knelt to the ground. Anger and horror were the predominate emotions but there was grief and pain present as well. Tréville knew those expressions well, even when they were flashing over a person’s face in such a way that they barely registered on skin.

“Radha,” the young man whispered, his voice croaking as he reached a hand over the girl’s brow.

His olive finger tips brushed away a clump of matted braiding, tucking it behind her pale ear. A fist pressed against the boy’s lips as he choked back the beginnings of tears, his white teeth digging into his flesh almost to the point of drawing blood. His entire body was shaking, his shoulders the stillest part of him as he drew his knuckles over the girl’s cheeks.

Tréville watched, enraptured by the display. He’d never seen d’Art this tactile; not even with the Three Terrors. The young man brushed away invisible tears from the young woman’s face with his knuckles, her skin not moving under his ministrations. This girl was a friend. A close one.

Tréville had a sudden vison of d’Art and the young woman, Radha, pressing their lips together in dim light. In the image, Radha’s long legs were wrapped against d’Art’s waist while his hands weaved into her flaming hair. Dark olive skin against pale porcelain, flaming curls mixing with black, beads reflecting flashes in the dark was suddenly a favored combination in Tréville’s mind. As well as he could see them as lovers, he could also see them as kin, arms locked over shoulders and laughter filling his thoughts.

“I wish for Aramis to do her rites,” d’Art croaked out as he moved her chin with his fingertips.

His eyes were fixed on the cut on her throat, his ears not picking up the creaking the movement caused. The cool mud had counteracted the warmth of the day but the smell told Tréville the girl had been without breath for longer than the afternoon.

“Of course,” Tréville said with a nod. “Come. We should get her somewhere more decent.”

“Wait.”

“d’Art,” Tréville groaned, his hands trying to pull the cloth back over her face until the young man smacked his hands away.

“I know this type of cut,” d’Art growled, his body bending over the girl until his nose was almost buried in the gaping wound.

“How so?”

“I’ve experienced it,” was the hissed response as the boy rocked back onto his heels. He swiped a hand over his nose as he sniffed back tears. His hand pulled the blue cloth back over her body, pausing at her chin until his other hand closed her eyes. He remained still once the cloth sank over the rigid body, molding back around her features.

“Experienced it?” Tréville asked in horror.

The young man gazed at him, lips thin against his face as he looked over the older man’s form. His hand rose to pull the scarf away from his neck, the long scar left in the dim light of the setting sun. Tréville swallowed bile at the sight, dark thoughts shifting through his head. The line was familiar to the cut Tréville had been staring at moments before. The jagged edge was probably due to being stitched together as well as the path of the blade.

“Who did that?” Tréville asked. “Who did _this_?”

He waved a hand over the body, anger seeping through him at his fresh understanding. The scarf was old; at least twenty years if his memory served him. The scar was just as old if not older. The same track of a knife, the same skill maturing over time. Someone had harmed his newest recruit before he could do anything. Now they had done it again, killing a friend of his. Someone was harming his people through association.

“A man who took me from my home,” d’Art said through his teeth, his hands fisting in his trousers. “A man who took much from me.” His hand fell on a chain at his neck. “So. Very. Much.”

Tréville stared at the young man, his eyes flicking over the shaking body. Aggression and grief were warring over the young man – he wasn’t a boy; hadn’t been for a while. He hadn’t run off. He wasn’t shutting down. He was holding himself back from doing anything, including grieving, as he answered Tréville’s questions. The elder placed a hand on d’Art’s shoulder, squeezing as much comfort as he could through the minimal contact.

“We should move her to the barracks,” he said. He ignored the soft, relived, smiles that crossed the line’s faces.

“The barracks?” d’Art asked.

“I’m not taking her to the coroner,” Tréville growled. “She deserves respect.” He scooped the shrouded body into his arms as he spoke, his sword clicking against his legs as he rose.

“Thank you,” d’Art whispered as he tripped back to his feet.

“Thank me later, Lad. I still want to know who this person is.”

The line of men wrapped around them like a barrier. A few, gloved hands clasped d’Art’s shoulders to give support as they proceeded through the city. Nothing was said though, the men understanding the privacy sweeping between the Captain and the little thief. It didn’t matter that the two weren’t talking; the men were being respectful in their own way. They drifted off on their way once Tréville and d’Art turned towards the infirmary.

“Captain,” d’Art stated as Tréville lay the girl on an empty bed in the infirmary. “Thank you.”

Tréville pulled a sheet over the body once he’d tucked the young woman’s arms over her stomach and pressed her legs together. His blue cloak had been dropped to the wood floor once Tréville had kicked the door open.

“No need, Lad,” Tréville stated as he stared down at the tenting sheet. Radha’s features were quite soft while under cloth. “It is the least I can do after all you’ve done for us, her help included.”

D’Art smiled at him with a soft smile pulling at his lips. He’d slipped the scarf back around his neck while Tréville hadn’t been watching him.

“Did you ever get the man’s name?” Tréville asked.

When d’Art looked away from him in the way a child would look away from his mother after stealing a cookie from the pan, Tréville held up a hand.

“I wish to catch him; give Radha justice. That’s all.”

D’Art glanced over at the bed behind Tréville for a moment before he sighed.

“I never had his name,” he admitted. “I only have his face trapped here.” He pointed to his temple, his fingers taping at the skin there. “That, along with my name, my father’s name, the name of my home, a trinket from a friend, and knowledge that a gift from my father is likely still held by the man who nearly killed me and killed Radha are all I have to my person.”

Tréville nodded. Of course that would be all d’Art would have to his person. Porthos had told Tréville about living in the Court; who he’d raised, who he’d taught. Porthos’ description of one of the girls – one of the two had known of d’Art’s return to Paris – had been one reason Tréville had even stopped his evening walk to see old friends and catch up on things he may have missed. He’d found himself feeling as if he was even further out of the loop since d’Art arrived with tips and leads Tréville never could had found before him.

“Alright,” Tréville sighed, flattening his beard with his hand. “I will call Aramis to speak her rites and arrange a place for her to be laid to rest. She’s one of your friends so I will claim her as family of a Musketeer Recruit.”

“My thanks,” the young man said as Tréville stepped past him.

Tréville paused at the door, the creaking hinges making his hearing almost miss the whisper from behind him.

“d’Art?” he asked, turning to face the young man.

“Charles de Batz d’Artagnan,” the young man stated.

“…What?”

“My name…I trust you with it. All of it.”

“…Lad-,” Tréville breathed.

“I have for a while, Captain,” the young man admitted. “I just…couldn’t find an opportunity to tell you without having too many people hearing it.”

Tréville chuckled, shaking his head. “As expected of you, Lad.” He took a step outside only to halt when the name truly registered.

“You’re Alexandre’s boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“…My condolences.”

“Thank you.”

Tréville closed the door, leaving the boy to his privacy, as he hobbled to the table under his balcony. He sank onto the bench with a heavy exhale, his mind spinning. The child he’d met two decades ago was Alexandre’s son. The child Tréville was supposed to meet the summer after a fire destroyed the farm in Lupiac had been in Paris this whole time, so close and yet hidden from his sight. His visit was a whole season too late, the letter of both condolence and divulgence appearing on his desk in a swarm of papers detailing property loses form bandits. He’d seen the wreckage himself, needing to see it in person after seeing the notification.

Aramis, Porthos, and Athos wandered past him well after the sun had set. Aramis was unsure on his feet, the two dragging his slurring and loud self through the courtyard as they tried to get him to quiet his ramblings. Athos was the one who noticed him sitting at the table, leaving Porthos to deal with Aramis.

“Captain?” Athos asked, a booted foot rising to press against the other bench.

Tréville let his eyes move over the other man’s frame. He could remember the man when he’d been in his early twenties; cocky and sure of himself as he bossed his fellows about as if he were aware that he had a future as a soldier. There was little question in the idea that Athos would be one of Tréville’s oldest combatants, Porthos and Aramis chugging on the same way to ensure Athos was never alone.

There was a fourth to consider now though and Tréville wouldn’t – couldn’t – reconcile the son of his friend being nearly killed because he’d made the friends he had. All because Tréville had let the death of his friend slip away from him.

“Just…thinking of an old friend,” he lied.

This secret was like Savoy; dangerous and necessary. He would keep it until it decided to blow up in his face like the powder keg it was. He could reason with himself that it was only a partial lie; he _was_ thinking of his old friend. He was wondering if this course of action would truly protect his friend’s son instead of alienating the young man.

Athos had his forearms pressed against his raised knee as he leaned his head towards his less dominant shoulder. Tréville read something akin to bemusement in Athos’ features that pressed him as intriguing – if it weren’t for the situation.

“Should I be giving condolences?” Athos asked, his blue eyes shifting towards where Porthos and Aramis had stumbled off towards the dorms. Was it the man’s way of showing his respect?

“Well…it’s been over twenty years since I last saw the man,” Tréville admitted. “But, yes, condolences would be welcome.”

“Then you have mine,” Athos stated, his eyes glanced towards the gates of the training yard. Tréville frowned. He understood being uneasy when dealing out condolences thanks to his own experiences but he had a suspicion that Athos was looking for someone; someone with red hair.

“Looking for someone?”

Athos’s eyes were wide as they met Tréville’s, shame at being caught seeping through them as his breathing hitched. Tréville couldn’t remember the last time Athos’ breathing skipped in its rhythms. There was a faint trace of pink lining Athos’ cheekbones as well.

“Wondering where a certain informant’s gotten off to,” Athos said with a shrug, his eyes falling back to the gate.

A flash of blood soaked mud, mud caked curls, and staring forest green eyes rushed through Tréville’s mind as Athos stared off into the distance.

“One of d’Art’s little friends?” Tréville asked. Athos nodded. “Want them to look for something?” A shrug was all he got. “Should I even bother asking if it’s potentially dangerous to you, your friends, or the Regiment?”

“I won’t endanger the Regiment or my friends,” Athos stated in his usual calm manner. A manner Tréville knew brought nothing but trouble, Aramis making excuses, and Porthos’ grumbles. It also brought back memories of how that manner tended to bring in large catches.

All Tréville could do was groan.

“Deal with Aramis,” he ordered. “I want him sober by morning.”

Athos’s head tilted again but he nodded as he pushed off the bench. He wished Tréville a good night before he too disappeared into the dorms. Tréville waited for a moment before he rejoined d’Artagnan in the infirmary. Old Serge stumbled out of the room, muttering how unhealthy it was to skip a meal as Tréville moved into the dim area.

D’Art had his head laid on the bed next to the young woman’s elbows, his hands under his temple. He still wore his weaponry and jacket but he had pulled a chair over at some point. His boots were tucked under the chair, toes wrapping around the front legs. Tréville pulled up another chair, sinking into the chair with a sigh. He glared at the light blue cloak still on the floor for a while before his eyes couldn’t resist the pull of sleep any longer.


	38. The Rebellious Woman: Part 1

The weeks after Radha’s burial went along in a blur for Athos.

All he could think of was what had transpired in the infirmary the morning after they’d seen Agnès away and Aramis had gotten himself drunk enough to ponder futures. The night had been short thanks to deep sleep once he and Porthos had settled Aramis’ ravings for a child of his own one day. The morning had come in a shattering of reds, pinks, oranges, and barely present purples. The beaming sunlight had streamed into the room the three of them had collapsed in, sharing the bed in a tangle of limbs and almost shed clothing.

Tréville had woken them with the banging of a kicked in door and a bellow. Athos had been the first out of the mass of limbs, tripping over his trapped feet – or Porthos’ feet; he wasn’t sure. He’d been dimly thankful that his trousers were still on and that his shirt – while loose and wrinkled – was still on his shoulders. Porthos and Aramis had fallen to the floor with a thud and resounding curses, hands flying about at odd angles as they untangled themselves. They were in their small clothes, Porthos’ shirt strewn somewhere on the floor while Aramis’ was sliding from between their bodies.

No, Athos wasn’t quite sure how that had happened – the night before fuzzy in his mind thanks to sleep and the wine – but it was a typical occurrence with the three of them. Also, Tréville had just barged in, eyes flaming with pent anger that only tended to spark about after Tréville had had to deal with Richelieu.

“Outside,” was Tréville’s next – coherent – order once they’d managed to make it to their feet.

He was out the door before Athos could ask what was going on and the former Comte de le Fère found himself scrambling to get his boots and jacket on. He didn’t bother strapping his weapons onto his body until he was out of the door and rushing down the steps to the training yard. He’d distantly registered Aramis and Porthos following him but he only took stock of them once they’d made it down the steps. Aramis was shrugging on his jacket while Porthos was combing his hair back with a hand, the other buckling his sword to his waist.

Tréville was waiting for them, the yard filled with the roar and clash of their brothers practicing. There was a tension in the air though, one born of frustration and confusion. It was like the men were trying to figure out a puzzle but couldn’t wrap their heads around it so they’d resorted to sparing their frustration out of their systems. Athos knew the feeling; he’d warred with it since he’d seen the husk of a farm he’d loved.

Tréville was stone still, his lips rolled into his mouth as he watched his men spar. His arms were crossed over his chest, his clothes protesting against the tight hold despite his not moving. Athos could almost see the whiteness of Tréville’s knuckles through the harsh leather gloves he was wearing. Tréville was showing his age for once, the creases in his furrowed brow deeper than usual.

“Captain, if this is about last night, I apologize,” Aramis ventured with a truly apologetic expression on his face. As he had begun to wake up, his brain supplied he, personally, hadn’t done anything but someone may have made a complaint about Aramis’ yelling. He’d placed his hat over his heart, his other hand behind his back. Porthos had his hands behind his own back as well, head bowed in apology.

Athos was about to follow suit when Tréville spoke again.

“This has nothing to do with you three getting drunk, _again_ ,” he snapped as he spun to face them. “You’re needed in the infirmary. Go. Now. Before I make up my mind on what to do with you three louts.”

They scattered immediately. Well, Porthos and Aramis scattered. Athos was dragged away before he could say or do something that would – in retrospect, Athos found – get them killed. He hadn’t been clear on who was dragging him other than there were hands on his coat and he’d had to fight for balance.

Serge was the one to meet them in the infirmary, his weathered hands tucking in a familiar mop of dark hair. Porthos was the first to make any noise, his tromping steps nearly shaking the place as he’d stormed to Serge’s side. Serge hushed him before he could question what was going on though, shoving Porthos towards a different bed; one with the sheet pulled over a body, red turning brown in the sheets.

“He’s been sleeping all night,” Serge muttered, jerking his head toward to the other occupant in the room. “Captain stayed with him through to breakfast, no less.” The old man was wringing his hands together as he spoke, eyes darting over his shoulder to make sure the boy he’d tucked away wasn’t going to sit up any time soon.

“Serge,” Porthos hissed, his temper barely held back. “Tell me what happened to d’Art or, so help me, I’ll-!” Aramis slapped a hand over Porthos’ mouth, a finger pressed to his lips.

“If anything happened, he needs rest,” Aramis whispered, his hand dropping. Porthos lifted a lip as if her were a snarling dog but he backed away from the old man.

“It’s not d’Art who’s hurt,” Serge muttered. “She is.” His beaten hand rose to point at the sheets covered body next to them and Athos began to understand. Tréville had sent them here to look over a body. The body of a girl going off the curves outlined by the sheets. A girl who d’Art had stayed with all night.

“Red or blonde?” he asked. Serge gave him a questioning look. “Her hair. Red. Or. Blonde.”

“Red.”

“Radha?” Porthos – Lord save them all – squeaked. It wasn’t a traditional squeak but there was a loss of air as he’d breathed the name, disbelief coloring his tone.

“I never got her name,” Serge whispered as if he were revealing a conspiracy against the crown. “All I know is that the Captain stayed here most of the night and so did d’Art.”

Athos had lifted the sheet then, his blood leaving him entirely as he stared down at the young woman he’d come to think of as a relation. She was a sister to d’Art and he considered d’Art a brother – no matter how much he hoped the boy wasn’t who Porthos and Aramis thought him to be (for if d’Art was that boy, he’d been so close to Athos and that would mean Athos had only managed to fail him differently).

It wasn’t just for the convenience either. She was something he almost expected to be around; like he expected d’Art to have those eerily familiar smiles and gestures now.

Porthos had lifted a fist to his mouth, his body reacting violently at the sight of Radha’s slack expression and porcelain pallor. He was across the room in a heartbeat, dragging his breathing back under control audibly in a manner Athos knew well. He’d done it once in the rain after a hanging lead to a burned husk of a farmhouse. Porthos was trying to not wake d’Art with his distress but he couldn’t keep everything under control.

Aramis stared, his movements to pull his hat over his breast stiff and uncoordinated. The resulting prayer that spilled from his lips came in Spanish. He whispered it as if to make sure only the girl laying before him would hear it.

They’d all buried her, named as family of the Musketeers. Athos had seen the others leave copious amounts of flowers near the pale cross that marked her grave. Charlotte had been spotted after the funeral, screaming and crying into d’Art’s chest and the men had watched for as long as could be considered polite before leaving, their gait stiff as they made sure to bow a head to the two without interrupting the scene.

There were things that had stopped being secret after Therron, apparently, that Athos had missed. Everyone knew who Charlotte and Radha were and knew they were the ones to find should d’Art be away for Tréville or something. How he’d missed it though was beyond him.

There were still whispers of vengeance flitting about the Garrison. He’d heard hundreds of plans on what should be done to the person responsible for the death of a girl he – honestly – hadn’t expected to have such respect form soldiers.

It’d been partially lost on him that it was possibly Radha’s involvement and proximity to d’Art – who had retreated to Constance’s home after the funeral – that had sparked the outcry. Another part of him knew that it wasn’t just d’Art’s involvement that could be blamed. It was also the fact that Tréville had made the arrangements himself, possibly lying (or bending the truth) to the King to have the girl named as a Musketeer’s family.

It could have been anything that had sparked the whispers but some of those whispers worried him. These were whispers of what d’Art would do now that a friend of his was gone.

Would he leave to find the bastard that had done the deed?

Would he leave to keep the remaining one safe?

Would the boy stay?

If he did stay, would he become a Musketeer?

Would he make a different path for himself by leaving Paris altogether?

The last idea shook him to his core. He’d lost too many brothers as it was and he couldn’t see himself being okay with d’Art leaving; even if it was to return to Flea in the Court of Miracles. He knew, instinctively, Porthos and Aramis felt the same. There was a fear in their eyes every time a whisper filtered past them that someone would be right. Sooner or later, someone would call the future down and d’Art would be gone, out of their reach and never to be seen again.

Even if Athos had to let his friends’ claims that d’Art was that child he’d loved be true, he would do it if it would keep d’Art within arm’s reach. He’d thought of letting his disbelief slip away while they were saving Agnès and Henri. He found himself unwilling to allow d’Art to leave; and if he thought about it deeply, he’d been unwilling since Vadim. He didn’t want to lose another brother.

His thoughts on the matter were drawn to a halt as he and Aramis’ attentions were dragged to an alleyway by a man shouting about thieves. It didn’t really matter that they were to part the crowd so the King and Queen’s carriage would have less obstacles. Tréville had Porthos and d’Art right behind him as he led the carriage. It was odd the man they’d gone to help called for them to leave the bag, let the thieves leave with it.

He only grew more confused when he managed to wind his way back to Tréville and the others, a ring of Red Guards surrounding them to keep the crowd at bay. Aramis had stayed with the man from the alley while he gave his report. A girl lay dead at the center of the ring, Porthos trying to keep Constance calm as d’Art helped the Guard shoo the people off. He was dismissed quickly once he’d given Tréville the explanation to his and Aramis’ not being at the front of the line at the time, Tréville’s eyes wild with something Athos couldn’t recognize.

There was anger there but Athos wasn’t sure what the anger was aimed at; him or the death.

“What was she even _doing_ running up to the royal carriage?” Aramis muttered as they remounted, his brow furrowed at the news Athos had brought.

“Who knows,” Athos sighed.

He was probably correct, seeing that Tréville took a look at it, his eyes widening whatever was written there. There was to be a meeting, the Cardinal next to the King and Queen later. Of that, Athos was sure.

He and Aramis, however, had to escort the man they’d ‘helped’ to his destination. Keep him from getting robbed once more.

* * *

“We’ll find her,” d’Artagnan said in a soft, rumbling whisper as Constance paced her husband’s home. She was worried – and rightly so – about Fleur, the girl who’d been with her and the young woman who’d died in an attempt to give a missive.

“What am I going to tell her father?” Constance moaned, her face scrunching in annoyance at the situation. “He’s my husband’s _cousin_!”

 _Or possibly that little bit of information_ , d’Art thought ruefully as Porthos herded Constance into a seat without touching her. _Dealing with family seems to be a problem the lot of us share._

“How long have you known her friend, Thérèse?” Porthos asked.

Constance shrugged, her head shaking as tears gathered in her eyes. “A month or so,” she answered. “I know Comtesse de Larroque took an interest in her; teaching her to read and write.”

“Many enlightened nobles show their servants kindness,” d’Artagnan said as gently as he dared.

“This was more than _kindness_ ,” Constance urged. “Thérèse knew Greek, Latin, and studied the stars. Fleur attended a few lessons herself. They…went in secret.”

He and Porthos shared a look, part of them already knowing that secrets were never things that stayed hidden; not with what they did for a living, what d’Art was trying to get into more than where he stood currently. With Radha dead, he wanted even less to do with the Court. Flea had given her condolences but she’d asked about what d’Art had had Radha doing. Charlotte wanted was still torn between screaming at him, screaming at the world, and shutting down.

“Comtesse de Larroque’s home then?” d’Art shrugged.

* * *

“Father Luca Sestini,” the Cardinal introduced. “He and I are old friends.”

_That much was clear from how you greeted him_ , Athos thought as the King brought up Sestini’s being Jesuit and – apparently – inclined to think the Pope should be in charge of all matters be they of state or spiritual. Part of him rushed back to his lessons as a boy, remembering how certain kings had stood in the snow to win favor back from the church. He couldn’t imagine his own king standing, barefoot, in the snow and begging forgiveness.

“Just well my people can’t read,” Louis muttered. “Or they may get ideas.”

“My apologies for any offence,” Sestini murmured. The King wished him a pleasant, and brief visit before returning to his chair.

“Your Majesty,” Tréville called. “A young woman, a friend of the girl who died this morning, has gone missing. We have reason to believe the Comtesse de Larroque may know something.”

“What makes you say so?” the Queen asked, worry flashing over her face as the King fidgeted in his seat.

Athos closed his eyes, trying to place the name through the hedge maze of nobility he’d been forced to memorize once. Female, enlightened, rumored beauty all flitted through his head but he couldn’t get anything more solid in nature past her traveling constantly.

 _Well, that was fruitless_ , he thought darkly.

“I have it on good authority that she attended the Comtesse’s salon and seems enthralled by her,” Tréville admitted.

 _Good authority? Well, that would be d’Artagnan_ , Athos thought, glancing to Aramis. His blue eyes found resonating agreement in Aramis’ brown.

They both twitched an eye at the Cardinal’s claim that the Comtesse was sneaking women to her boudoir. The comment was a bit…out there considering the lack of empirical evidence and such but also that it was against a woman of high standing; her gender aside. Athos had learned that women weren’t to be underestimated. A long time ago.

And, the Cardinal’s claim of ugly rumors aside, the Queen was already looking rather…prickly considering the death of the girl as well as her _husband_ claiming another woman as _pretty_. Athos hadn’t missed how the Queen’s head had jerked at the wayward – and it had been nothing less – comment from the King. Just as he hadn’t missed the look on her face as the King asked for discretion. Though, from where Athos stood, it was a bit difficult to miss such things from a beautiful, gentle woman.

“You’re too generous, your Majesty,” the Cardinal ground out.

“It’s a weakness.”

* * *

Athos and Aramis met them outside the grand house, servants leaping out of their way when their horses barged through. Porthos and d’Art had been waiting, Porthos ignoring the way d’Art pressed against his arm and side. Porthos couldn’t blame the boy given the circumstances going through the whole of the garrison. No one wanted the men doing anything rash but it wasn’t lost on anyone that d’Art was the most affected out of the whole lot. Tréville had a lively standing as the second most affected, his words harsher at times than they needed to be and his demeanor towards d’Art changed a bit.

Porthos, while not sure why the change had come about, had noticed how Tréville had begun to pull d’Art closer to his side at times, how the two whispered in Tréville’s office or behind other closed doors. There were soft looks that Tréville would send towards d’Art when he was training or even just hanging about the garrison. He was concerned about the boy; that much was clear. What that concern was being driven by, however, was what worried Porthos.

“Cardinal’s making claims already is he?” Porthos asked as they sauntered into the place, a maid trailing along after them, her voice giving directions.

“Yes,” Athos sighed. Porthos snorted.

The library, in which, they ended up had a high ceiling and glowed white as the sun streamed through the skylight. Women were seated all about, reading, chatting, doing…things. Porthos tried to keep his surprise at the utter normalcy of the scene hidden as Athos asked about Fleur Baudin. The Comtesse herself stood before them in a moment, her eyes cool as she gazed at them. Porthos had the sudden impression she was unimpressed with them.

He tried to ignore how d’Art slid to stand behind him, the boy’s wide-eyed expression making it tempting to lift a brow in questioning. Comtesse Ninon de Larroque made it _quite_ easy when she interrupted Athos – “I _know_ who you are.” – and telling him she thought him handsome.

He’d never seen Athos blush before. Hell, he’d never seen Athos nervous either. It was more enlightening than the escapade to le Fère.

It only got harder to not laugh when she commented on the ‘melancholy aspect’ to Athos’ person that had interested her until she’d noted it was ‘probably mental vacancy’. Aramis smiled first, brows lifted in surprise at the wit and cutting edge of the Lady’s words. Porthos chuckled softly, patting a hand on Athos’ shoulder in reassurance.

“I apologize for the intru-,” Athos tried again.

“I will not,” Ninon stated. “This is a place of _scholarship_ , for women to enjoy each other’s company without men’s crude attentions.” She took a breath. “What do you want?”

Athos _stumbled_ _over his words_ then, trying to avoid the Comtesse’s eyes as he spoke of their reason for being there. She batted down his comment on Fleur’s family being anxious with a slick comment on marriage and domestic slavery.

As much as Porthos disliked the second word, he found he could almost agree with the usage. Madame Bonacieux was subject to that – idiot – husband of hers, her fears weighing on what would please him or displease him. Her worry over Fleur was fueled over relation to the girl but not her own, but her husband’s.

“She’s not here. You can go.”

“Your broach,” Porthos called. “What’s it mean?”

She looked down at the bird at her chest, a soft smile gracing her face for a moment.

“It’s a Wren. A bird that cannot be caged; a symbol of hope and freedom,” she said proudly.

“A symbol of your own dreams and ambitions I’d imagine,” Aramis said with one of his charming smiles.

“Ah! We have a Romantic in our midst. Observe, ladies, the remarkable phenomenon of a man of wisdom and protection.”

“If by romantic, you mean a man who willingly acknowledges the superiority of the female sex then,” Aramis smiled, saluting the Comtesse with a slight flourish, his pauldron squeaking a bit, “I accept the description.”

“We’re all _quite_ immune to your charm here,” she smirked at Athos.

This led into another little ‘debate’ on their reason for being there and if Ninon would mind if they searched her house for the girl. Athos lost, backing away from the woman’s keen gaze. They gained access to her home only because she was feeling indulgent though, Porthos was sure that wasn’t what she was feeling.

She slipped past Athos, eyes fliting over Aramis and Porthos’ forms for a moment when she stopped in her tracks, eyes fixed on the person behind Porthos’ back. The large man barely had enough time to leap away as she gave a cheerful cry of ‘Charles!’ with her arms thrown wide as she went to hug d’Artagnan.

They all stared in amazement as she kissed the boy’s cheeks, cupped his face in her hands as she pressed her brow to his, and smiled a radiant smile.

“My goodness!” she cooed, turning his head a bit as she looked him over. “You poor thing, you look like you’ve not slept in _days_!” Her hands slid to his shoulders, pushing him away from herself to look him over more thoroughly. “You’re _still_ too skinny!” Her finger bopped his nose in gentle admonishment, her smile never leaving her eyes. “I should feed you up so you’ll have a bit of meat on those bones of yours,” she laughed.

“Comtesse,” Athos coughed. She glanced at him with a hum of confusion, hands still on d’Art’s shoulders. “You know him?”

Aramis scowled at Athos’ idiot question, Porthos rolled his eyes, and d’Art sighed.

“Of course I do,” she snickered. “I met him a year and half ago in Lupiac.” She smiled back at the boy who smiled back at her nervously. “Such a shame you can’t speak,” she sighed before pushing the boy off to a young woman. “He’s a friend; see that he gets some actual food in him.”

D’Art gapped like a fish at her, holding a finger up to call everyone to a halt as the girls about them started to _really_ whisper. He waved the girl off, his head shaking as his hands waved in a cross formation in front of himself. He turned to Ninon and signaled he wasn’t hungry, pointing to the food, himself, and shaking his head. Ninon scowled at him until he took an apple from the table, his sword clacking against his legs. Her eyes fell on it with distaste.

“And where on earth, did you find that?” she asked as he chewed at the apple. He smiled and shook his head. “Won’t tell me, is it?” Another shake. “Fine. I’ll ask your friend while he searches my home.”

He bowed at her as she swept out of the room, Athos tripping after her as he kept looking back at d’Art in confusion. D’Art only shrugged at him as he continued eating the apple.

“Boy,” Porthos groaned. “I’m getting real tired of the way you reveal things.”

D’Art shrugged at them, an apologetic smile on his face. Porthos rolled his eyes, knowing d’Artagnan wouldn’t speak now that he’d been claimed a mute. Aramis sighed, shaking his head before he launched them into a different topic; Athos and Ninon’s flirting with each other.

“Rubbish,” Porthos grunted. “She can’t stand him.”

“One day, we’ll sit down and I’ll explain women to you,” Aramis smiled, earning a quiet laugh from d’Art.

* * *

Comtesse Ninon de Larroque was an enigma as far as Athos was concerned.

Having verbal debates over status and class in regards to women was interesting – enlightening really – and had proven to him he still knew very little when it came to dealing with the opposite sex. He learned a few other things as well. Things such as how Ninon was thought of as a corruptive force by the men whose women came to her, how she viewed women as equals to herself no matter the situation, and that she (possibly) wished to see him again (if that kiss was anything to go by).

He couldn’t see it ending well. Even if it stayed as only a dinner, all he could see it ending in were flames, tears, blood, and pain. He could think of his childhood home burning around him while someone called his name; calling _Olivier_ against the roar of the fire – he still had yet to ask d’Art about that incident; where he’d gotten that name from. He imagined a farm in Gascony being burned, a small boy calling _Olivier_ as well.

No, he most certainly would _not_ attend dinner with her, her order aside.

Why he had agreed to such a ludicrously idiotic action continued to allude him as he stared at the books in Ninon’s library that night as he waited for her to join him. This was a stupid plan. This was an idiot plan. This was stupid. This was rude of him to do.

“I won’t kiss you again if you don’t desire it,” she said gently.

“I’m better prepared to fight you off this time,” he countered with a smile. _What am I doing? What the hell am I doing?_

“Shall we dine?”

“There’s something I have to show you first.”

Another thing he learned was that Ninon flinched at death, a hand over her mouth and tears in her eyes as any sane person should. Her word play turned strained when under pressure; as he found when he questioned her before the body of young Thérèse. When she’d been in her home, she’d been confident and a tad loquacious. Before the body of a girl she claimed fondness for, her words were more succinct, even terse. There was still confidence but it wasn’t as loud as it had been earlier that day.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said, knowing she’d see the lie for what it was; a lie.

“Yes you did.”

She said something flowery for the girl before them both, asking the coroner to cover the girl’s face once she’d finished. Athos blinked then, her movement away from the body having gained him access to see another body.

“Do you know him?”

“A thief,” he replied. “How did he die?”

“Undetermined,” the coroner sniffed. He made an excuse, claiming the dead man had to wait his turn or some such nonsense.

“Look after the bag. I’ll send for it in the morning,” he ordered before her escorted the Comtesse out. Athos had never cared for the balding man before him but he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. The man would do as he was told by a Musketeer; something about Aramis and d’Art making a point ringing in his memory.

“May I ask,” he inquired as he walked Ninon home. She stood to his left, refusing her typical gender role as he’d come to expect her to do. “Do you…dislike men?”

She smiled. “I believe marriage to be a curse and won’t submit to its thrall.”

“I agree,” he sighed. “But why?”

“On my wedding day, all I own will become my husband’s property,” she explained. “This, naturally, includes my body. I won’t be owned by anyone.”

“So what they say is true,” he mused. “You are a ‘rebellious woman’.”

She smiled at him. He found himself willing to share his views on the subject; that he was done with romance. Her question of if it had ended badly was such an understatement he couldn’t find the words past ‘You could say that’ for nothing else would do at that moment. Simply nothing. He could believe her when she stated her wish for equality between the sexes, instead of hate. He could truly believe it.

He was about to ask her about d’Art, knowing this could be his only chance – to find out about her knowledge or assuage his thoughts on what Aramis and Porthos claimed he was unsure – but Aramis had the worst damned timing.

“Trouble,” the Spaniard huffed, jerking a thumb to the orange glow of the house behind him. Athos would have rolled his eyes had it not been for Aramis’ rather explosive tossing out of a Red Guard.

“The Cardinal’s men,” Athos breathed. “I knew nothing of this,” he added as he rushed inside to find Guards shoving his friend, tossing the books about, and screaming women.

Questioning the Guards’ authority was quashed the moment one idiot laid hand on him. He and Aramis avoided drawing their swords though, the hard tomes surrounding them all effective weapons against hardheaded Guards. The fight was a blur – as many were becoming for him recently – until one came out with a group of girls he didn’t recognize.

Actually, he recognized one. Constance had given a vivid description of Fleur earlier.

“Found them! Sleeping in a hidden chamber!” Silence for a moment, the girls looking to Ninon for understanding of what was happening. “Comtesse de Larroque, you’re under arrest for the abduction of these girls.”

“You told me she wasn’t here,” he ground out.

“She begged me not to tell you,” Ninon said as the Guards caught her up. “ _Please_ , make them stop this!”

“I _can’t_!” he yelled back as they were lead away.


	39. The Rebellious Woman: Part 2

Tréville found Father Sestini to be a bit…single minded as the meeting with the Royals commenced. The Cardinal, at the very least, had enough circumstantial evidence to push his prior claim of possible misconduct of the Comtesse. Four young girls, not married and possibly promised to someone, found in a hidden cupboard of a room in their nightwear? It was hard to _not_ speculate.

It was Sestini’s claim of the smell of witchcraft that made the whole conversation turn sideways for a moment. The King, to Tréville’s utter glee and amusement, made a crack at the comment. Yet, it didn’t deter Sestini from continuing on in his perceptions.

Also, Rome would follow the events? That statement alone made Tréville’s spine straighten. Rome was old, its ways set in stone older than the palace they stood in. Witchcraft, Satan, Demons, and anything viewed as _wrong_ was thought cursed and therefore shunned; on a good day. On a bad day, blood coated streets and watered crops for days.

“What a wonderfully, unpleasant little man,” the King huffed.

“What nonsense!” the Queen voiced.

The conversation devolved into the King telling of how he thought witches were supposed to appear; how de Larroque had none of the correct qualities. Tréville, while he kept his own commentary light and carefully tread his way around the glass surrounding them, he watched as the Cardinal stared out the door, hand on his cross.

This wouldn’t end well.

* * *

For Porthos, riding out to the church that looked more like a castle than a monastery had been uneventful. The Red Guards were quite after d’Art had sent them a dark glare for being rough in their handling of the Comtesse. The fact that the two men had even backed off spoke of past dealings with the young man that had ended  _distinctly_ in d’Artagnan’s favor. Porthos knew better than to question it though; at least, not around Ninon who thought d’Art incapable of speaking.

The entire ride had been filled with either a tense silence. The ride should have been longer than it had been but it was as if the horses had been given nothing but pure energy after d’Artagnan had checked them all over before they had ridden out. He suspected it was partly due to the easy canter Athos had settled them at but he also suspected it was because d’Artagnan had whispered encouragement to the creatures before they’d left.

If there was anyone with magic in them, it would have to be d’Artagnan who Porthos had seen do impossible things; chief among them being his ability to grieve without shedding tears. Porthos couldn’t claim he’d seen d’Art cry over Radha but he also couldn’t claim that he wanted to know if he was correct. There were some things that should just be left alone.

“Why’s she being tried here?” he asked Aramis once they had made their way into the courtyard and Ninon was being led away, still on her horse.

“Cardinal’s trying to avoid a public hearing,” Aramis sighed.

“Do people really believe in such things as witchcraft?” Porthos asked as Athos joined them.

“It’s a sound way to still tongues,” Aramis muttered.

“She had the girls and lied about it,” Athos whispered. “She’s brought this upon herself.”

“She was protecting that girl,” Aramis said in a soft tone, like a mother scolding her child to making a mistake. “If d’Art were here, you’d have held your tongue too; seeing as he’s such good friends with Ninon.”

Athos glared but said nothing as he walked away. Aramis left Porthos alone to deal with Athos’ foul mood to speak with the Comtesse. It took a bit of doing to ignore how Aramis handed the woman something. He suspected it was the rosary Aramis had been given by the Queen. That was surely going to end well.

He wondered how d’Artagnan was doing with the Fleur.

* * *

The girl was a right mess, crying into Constance’s shoulder as the elder woman told her about accepting one’s fate in life. Fleur probably hadn’t helped herself when she made a point of shoving what was wrong with Constance’s marriage into the light; that Constance hated her husband. The girl’s father had appeared soon after the little ‘revelation’ of Constance’s, growling about being shamed and nearly hitting Fleur. D’Art had shown himself then, stating his feeling through different words.

“This is family business and no concern of yours,” the man snarled at d’Art before laying into Constance for her silence. Constance’s defense of Fleur’s wishes were shot down by the man’s express expectations of the girl’s life; expectations he’d made for her since her birth apparently considering how ironclad they were.

“Out of my way!” he growled when d’Art stopped him from leaving immediately with the girl.

The man was a few inches shorter than d’Artagnan was as well as far too well fed. Forget what Ninon and Aramis thought of his build; he preferred having his lithe form. It made things easier for him. He held up a finger to keep the man’s interest.

“Harm her,” he said in a low tone of voice, “and I will know.”

The man gave him a confused look before a flood of grief fell over his features.

“I’m not going to hurt her. I _love_ her…if only she’d do as she was told…” They left with the banging of the door then.

D’Artagnan had little interest in the idea that the man loved his daughter though. He doubted the validity of the statement before it had been uttered. A father who loves his children looks out for them even if society is trying to destroy them.

_“Your father wishes his life onto you.”_

_“It’s not a problem, really, Alexandre.”_

_“But it is! I only have Charles and yet I will only wish for him to take the farm should it be what he wishes to do.”_

_“My younger brother is barely old enough to understand what it_ is _to run a town as a Comte. I’m the elder and have had all the training.”_

_“And yet you run to the countryside to leave it.”_

_“…I like the countryside.”_

_“You like my son as another brother. Don’t bother trying to lie to me, boy.”_

_“What should I_ do _then? A commission like this would do me many favors in life yet…”_

_“What favors will it do you? Scars and heartache? I’ve been a soldier before; I know better….Make no rash decisions…and at the very least, write us.”_

Except, he never wrote.

Not that the letters would have had anywhere to go.

He and Constance shared a look for a moment, Constance breaking the contact when she stormed back to her chores. D’Artagnan had nowhere else he had to be so he sneaked to his room like a scolded child.

His door closed with a click, the sound like what was snapping in his head. Memories of screams and blood and flames leapt about from his subconscious, dancing and echoing in the small room. He couldn’t scream at them to leave, his throat clogging as the phantom touch of a blade pressed through his skin. It was ridiculous how the past could eat him still all thanks to it returning to his life.

He knew now that he should have told Radha to stay out of it, to stay away from anything pertaining his past. It was his past that hurt him, separated him from a brother. It was his past that had dumped him into a life his father wouldn’t have wished on him. It was his past that had grown to be a point of contention between his two new brothers and his old one. It was his past that killed her, ripped her from everyone she loved, everyone who loved her.

* * *

Fleur Baudin, while pure of heart and well-meaning enough for someone her age, had been of no help to any case that wasn’t what the Cardinal had decided on. The smallest things she said were twisted into – what Athos hoped were – horrid lies. The standing evidence hadn’t really helped either. Athos had ended up helping escort the girl back to her father when the Guards had begun to get rougher than they needed to be.

That was probably how he missed _her_ entrance.

The entrance he’d missed but her voice…He’d not forget it any time soon. The words she spoke rang only loud enough in his ears to know that there was a stark difference between what Ninon and Fleur – and even Constance – had claimed.

He didn’t even realize he had screamed until the words echoed back to him. It wasn’t until Tréville was yelling for him to be calm that he’d noticed he’d rushed the gate separating witnesses from the ‘court’. Porthos and Aramis were staring at him as if he’d grown a head but he could care less.

“What was that?” Porthos whispered once _she_ had left.

He didn’t dare speak as the Cardinal spoke his sentencing let alone when the Queen, herself, arrived from god only knew where. There was distant part of him that thanked whatever god there may be that he hadn’t had his outburst before her.

The Queen’s voice was clear as she spoke ‘the King’s wish’ for Ninon’s sentences but it was unwavering. There was an annoyance hidden within it but Athos couldn’t tell if it were towards her husband’s wishes (that spoke of favoritism) or the Cardinal’s antics.

The Cardinal’s sudden inability to breathe had come as a surprise though.

Louis was ineffective as expected when they’d carried the Cardinal into a safe room, Aramis screaming for a medic as well as castor oil, claiming poisoning. It was all well and good he hoped the Cardinal wouldn’t die but his words spoke of a dependence Athos couldn’t say he liked. Aramis shoved something down the Cardinal’s throat then, the struggle to get the screaming man to take the medicine taking precedence.

* * *

The Queen had practically cornered him when he’d managed to leave the Cardinal’s side. Without knowledge of what the man had ingested, Aramis wasn’t sure what he could do; though that didn’t mean he couldn’t attempt to be contrite before Her Majesty. He was servant France and, despite the Cardinal not being a friend to his Captain or his Regiment, he had to admit that the Cardinal was in the same damned boat as he was.

It wasn’t the Cardinal that she was asking over though and that was what really made Aramis begin to understand the stories he’d heard from Porthos and d’Art. He was cornered and had no one to turn to.

“I didn’t expect my gift to you to be on the Comtesse’s neck,” Queen Anne stated with a cool voice. Her eyes seemed to betray her hurt though. “Is Ninon your lover?”

“She’s a good woman facing false accusations,” he said, knowing he was dancing around her question because he was too nervous to tell her he hadn’t been sleeping with women lately. As complimentary as it was that he couldn’t get a woman off his mind, when said woman was the Queen of France he had to play his cards carefully. He could probably manage to get away with saying he had no – current – lovers but she may not believe him.

Or he could just be vague about his reason for giving the rosary to another woman.

“I only wished to comfort her,” he sighed.

The woman looked good with a blush on her cheeks. _I shouldn’t think of her as a woman_ , he thought weakly as she _apologized to him_. He knew he shouldn’t think of her as anything less than Royal and _out of reach_ but he thought of all women as women. It was a weakness and serious character flaw when it came to the women he had a tendency to fall for.

“Your compassion does you credit,” she smiled. He couldn’t help it. He smiled back.

He’d had to stomp down the skip in his step on his way back to the courtroom to meet with Athos and Porthos. He couldn’t let on about his ever growing feelings for the woman who held power over the King himself.

“Where’s the Comtesse?” Aramis asked.

“Back in her cell,” Porthos replied. “The Cardinal?”

“Only _just_ alive,” Aramis sighed. “Someone was bold enough to poison him; _here_ no less. It’s almost impressive…in a morbid sense.”

“Who’d have reason to though?’ Porthos muttered. “Besides the whole of the Red Guards and the Musketeers that is.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Aramis shrugged.

They looked at Athos then, finding him contemplatively quiet which never ended well in their experience. Aramis remained quiet, shoving his hat onto his head as Porthos asked about the woman who’d set him off so badly. Madame de le Chapel, a woman who by simply speaking, had sent Athos into a rage. It was almost impressive had it not been for the sheer amount of anger they’d seen in Athos’ eyes. He gave a vague reply to their questions on the woman though and, as his friends, they understood he wasn’t going to tell them.

“Whoever she is, she can wait,” Porthos grunted. “Right now, we have to find out who tried to kill the Cardinal.”

“Clearly, it was the witch,” Sestini’s voice chimed. Aramis tried to not roll his eyes. For someone who preached to be a servant of God, Sestini was rather…malicious. “You heard her curse him.”

“Poisoned,” Porthos pointed out. “Not bewitched.”

And Sestini began to claim outrageous things that made Aramis’ head swim at the utter idiocy the man was spouting. Blood turning to acid on command? He’d seen it before? All it took to get a high snort out of Aramis was Porthos’ wicked timing with a poignant zinger of a comment. Add Satan to the list? Sure, why not? Sestini could call himself a pious man all he liked but Aramis wasn’t about to drink whatever was in the water in Rome.

He’d rather become one of Ferrand’s parish members.

“Your bag was found with the body of the man who stole it,” Athos stated before the man left. “I’ll see it returned to you before you return to Rome.”

Once the rather…unpleasant man had left their company, Porthos gave a sigh.

“We need to speak to Fleur Baudin.”

* * *

“Let her talk, please,” d’Art hissed to Constance.

They were all gathered in the training yard of the Musketeer Garrison, circled around the table of the Three Inseparables. Fleur sat on a short end while the rest of them had taken over the benches. D’Art’s scarf was fanned out over his neck, catching on his chin as he spoke or turned his head. Athos thought he looked a bit like a turtle.

“The truth,” Porthos rumbled.

“I didn’t do _anything_ , I swear,” she said, eyes wide with distress over the situation. The expression changed a bit, the fear changing its subject. “I have to go…My father is waiting. I’m to be married…”

Constance trailed after the girl, a frown marring her pretty features. The situation was rather ridiculous, all things considered. Fleur wasn’t pleased over what was expected of her sex and that was _before_ the situation they were all facing.

“I’m going to visit Ninon,” d’Art muttered with a grunt as he leapt from his seat.

“Why?” Athos asked, his eyes going wide for a moment.

“She’ll talk to me,” d’Art shrugged.

“Let the pup go,” Porthos groaned. “We have things to do…Though, I don’t know why we’re bothering.”

“Be seeing you,” d’Art said before he disappeared through the arched gateway, Athos reaching for him with a croaking demand on his lips that refused to go any further.

“Damn it,” Athos sighed.

“Worried he’ll never talk to you again or something?” Aramis asked with a mean glint in his eyes. “Or do you still wish you’d been able to ask the Comtesse about what she knew of him _before_ the Red Guards trashed her salon?”

“I rue the moment I tell you two _anything_ in confidence,” Athos snarled. “One of you should go with him.”

Aramis snorted as he tucked his hat onto his head. “Athos… _Please_.”

“He’s _thirty_ for fuck’s sake, Athos,” Porthos sighed. “Come on.”

* * *

“–nothing worse than a woman who betrays her own sex,” Ninon’s voice echoed against the stone walls of the cells.

D’Art cocked his head in interest, tugging his scarf down from his nose. He’d arrived late, he knew that, but the monks and nuns of the place were kind enough to spare him dinner and a room for the night. He’d told them his plan to visit the Comtesse and they said he could see her though it was probably wiser for him to not go near the witch. He’d only smiled at them, bobbing his head in a shallow bow before wandering down into the dungeons.

It was the warnings ringing in his ears that left him cause for concern when he heard Ninon speaking to…someone.

“I can think of a few things,” a luxurious voice replied.

His feet moved faster, the corridor longer than he’d expected. He didn’t run, a treacherous side of him wanting nothing more than to hear what they said so he could hand it to the right people.

“Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t. You’re a victim of circumstance. And, sadly, you will have to die.”

“Only if I admit to the charges, which I shall never do.”

“If you wish but know that, by not confessing, the women in your salon will burn in your place.”

“You would do this, knowing them to be innocent?!”

“Admit to poisoning the Cardinal as well. May as well be thorough.”

He coughed then, leaning against the corner he’d had to turn to find them. _She_ was dressed in a dark blue that almost looked black in the torchlight. It set off her pale skin well, her graceful movements making her look like a ghost.

“If it isn’t the little hero,” _she_ smiled at him. The smile left her face as she turned to the Comtesse. “I will expect that confession within an hour.”

And before he could snarl a threat to her, she was striding past him, a fingernail scrapping over his jawline as she smiled at him with that wicked, knowing smile. Her heels clicked away until they faded into nothingness. That was when he was able to move again.

“Charles,” Ninon smiled.

He smiled back, wrapping a hand around the bars as he pressed himself into the small archway. He jerked his head over his shoulder, his brows knitted in a questioning arc. Her smile softened a bit as she kept her eyes on him.

“It’s good to see you again, dear boy,” she whispered.

He reached his arm through the bars, pressing his body against the metal. He held his hand with his palm up. She took it in a gentle hold as tears fell from her eyes in rivers. With a soft tug, he pulled her close to the bars which led to her wrapping her arms through them to cling to him as she sobbed.

“That woman…I was wrong when I called the Cardinal the devil,” she blubbered out against his jacket. “No…he’s only a minion. _She_ is true evil.”

He shrugged, though he could agree with her. That woman wasn’t a normal woman in any sense and, if he thought about it, she was probably far more rebellious than Ninon had _ever_ been. Ninon didn’t know how to fire a weapon and abhorred the mention of killing someone – no matter the reasons. She had framed him for murder – possibly because he hadn’t let her do as she wished – yet, she’d also saved his life once.

He wasn’t sure what to make of her really. She was more of a contradiction than Aramis and Porthos were and that said so very much. She killed indiscriminately yet seemed to have an interest in his well-being. Though, he wouldn’t call it healthy.

“I can’t let her kill the others,” Ninon sobbed.

 _It’s stupid_ , he thought as he sighed his agreement. _It’s an education that would only lend itself to making the women feel…a little less like trampled shit. Nonsense, the whole of this is nonsense._

Ninon broke from him then, his head jarring against the bar at the jerking movement. He rubbed his temple as he frowned at her.

“Sorry dear boy but…I won’t let them blame other innocents,” Ninon stated as she wrote on a thin line of paper. “Please, Charles, be a dear and give this to your friend Aramis,” she whispered as she slipped a necklace from her neck, curling the chain around the cross on it. “He’ll be able to know what has happened.”

He curled his fingers around the rosary he’d been handed. He’d seen it before though he found himself wondering who’d given it to Aramis in the first place. Something told him to not ask about it though. She wrapped her hands around his fist, smooth skin like velvet against his olive skin, her lips in a smile tainted by her fear and frustration.

“Be safe, dear boy.”

He placed a hand on the back of her head, pulling her close to the bars until he could press his lips to her brow.

“You too, Comtesse.”

He slipped away from the cell before she could grab at him again, mounting his horse in record time and disappearing into the darkness. He didn’t care if _that woman_ saw him going. He didn’t care if the monks questioned if he’d been cursed. He was getting to Paris before dawn and he was going to wring Athos’ neck if the man refused to listen to him.

Witches don’t exist. Evil people, however, did.


	40. The Rebellious Woman: Part 3

“We’ve asked everyone we could think of asking,” Porthos sighed as the tramped to the coroner’s.

He spoke the truth in a sense. Fleur hadn’t done it, she hadn’t had access to the Cardinal before the hearing. They’d gone and found Charlotte too. Speaking to Charlotte had been a hit or miss venture, he knew, but he hadn’t quite expected her to nearly throw things at them, blaming them for Radha and – for some reason – d’Art. Flea had had to drag the girl away, apologizing profusely to them for the unexpected attack.

Aramis had brushed the encounter off somewhat. Athos didn’t seem bothered by it. Porthos had a feeling it wouldn’t have happened had d’Art been with them.

“Ninon?” Aramis queried.

“She was nowhere near him,” came a rough voice.

“Damn it d’Art!” Aramis cried, swatting the boy with his hat. He paused then, taking stock of the boys sweat laden face and harsh breathing. “That was quick of you…Were you turned away?”

“No,” d’Art grumbled as he shoved something into Aramis’ hand. “We have until morning by the way.”

“What?!” Porthos bellowed, Athos giving the boy a concerned look.

“Ninon will be dead in the morning.”

“She confessed then?” Athos asked as Aramis stared at the rosary in his hand, face pale and eyes storming.

D’Artagnan snorted. “Please…Do we have anything?”

“Maybe,” Athos lied. He turned to the coroner. “Where’s the bag?”

“It could have been one of her followers,” Aramis suggested, his fingers curled around the cross in his hand. He seemed a bit more eager to change the subject than even d’Art. “We should speak to them.”

“They aren’t involved,” d’Art muttered.

“How did he die?” Athos asked.

“Apoplexy. Was having a drink when he suddenly convulsed and fell down, dead on the spot,” the coroner stated. D’Art’s eyes narrowed at Athos looked at them with an expression Porthos knew well.

“Sounds familiar,” Porthos grunted.

“Like the Cardinal,” Aramis breathed.

“Sestini,” Athos growled as he bent to inspect the contents of the bag, placing them on the table as Aramis and Porthos crowded the body’s head.

“Open his mouth,” Aramis said.

“You,” Porthos shot back. Aramis rolled his eyes, a hand gripping the dead man’s jaw to open his mouth. He bent down to take a sniff, recoiling with a groan.

“He _stinks_!” Aramis groaned.

“He’s dead,” d’Art said incredulously.

“Not like that,” Aramis sighed. “It’s bitter.”

Porthos took his chance to smell what Aramis was speaking of as Aramis informed d’Art of his findings. Surely it wasn’t that bad.

He was wrong.

“Disgusting eating habits or something’s wrong,” Porthos grunted through the burning at the back of his throat and in his nostrils. “That’s rightly rank, that is.”

“I smelled it on the Cardinal too,” Aramis said.

D’Art was looking through a small book from the bag then, running his fingers together as his brow knitted into a frown.

“Pages are damp.”

“Wash your hands,” Athos said. “Everything’s soaked in the poison.” He produced a small glass from the bag, sniffed at it, his head jerking back. “This was what it was in.”

“Drank half the bowl before he found it wasn’t alcohol,” Porthos muttered as d’Art washed his hands in a basin. “The rest was thrown into the bag, soaking everything.”

“Sestini’s still in the abbey,” d’Art said as he shook his hands dry. “I saw him when I was leaving.”

“Cardinal’s still alive,” Athos pointed out as he bolted from the place.

“Why are we running?” Porthos asked as he chased after them.

“Think of the Comtesse,” d’Art shot over his shoulder.

Well, that certainly gained him a bit more speed.

* * *

It had been a rather mad rush through the abbey walls when they’d arrived, their horses laden with sweat. D’Art had had to ride a different horse, Zad apparently overworked from the boy’s earlier ride. The pyre was being built when they’d rushed in, the Red Guard joking about the Comtesse confessing. The Cardinal, thankfully, had his own little weapon to use against Sestini since they were indeed, late.

“Glad to find you well, your Eminence,” Athos grunted as he and the Cardinal struggled ot get the man to his feet.

“I doubt it.” The man glared at the box by his desk. “Should have seen it sooner.”

“You knew?!” Porthos bellowed.

“Old papal trick, bathing an old relic in poison.”

“Running out of time,” d’Art hissed to the man. “They have built the pyre,” he added when the Cardinal looked a bit confused at him. “You don’t need to kill her.”

“Well, a glimpse of one’s mortality does tend to liven them a bit, doesn’t it?” the Cardinal murmured. “Suggestions then?”

And, before Athos could contemplate what they suggested, they were back in the abbey courtyard, pulling smoking wood bundles from the pyre and freeing the Comtesse. She smiled to Aramis, speaking of his god not abandoning her with a fond tint to her voice before she caught d’Artagnan’s sleeve and pulled him into a hug.

“Sweet boy,” she whispered. He smiled to her and shuffled her back to Athos who led her to the Cardinal’s room so she could be told of the agreement.

“The Comtesse de Larroque has died on that pyre today,” the man stated. “All your property is forfeit to the King but you are allowed a small income to live outside of Paris, quietly.”

“I will not be silenced but you won’t hear from me,” she stated, her agreement present in the words even though they were fighting.

Within the whirlwind of organizing her things and arranging transport, Athos found himself standing in the forest, rain plunking on his head, and asking Ninon her plans. She’d open a school for the girls of the poor. He thought teaching would suit her. He asked her of _her_ , wishing to know what she may have said about herself to Ninon. He had expected it to be very little but it still stung in his breast to know that the woman was still lying her way through life around him.

“Be careful Athos,” she whispered as she held a hand against his cheek. “She’s protected by the Cardinal.” She pressed her lips to his then, a strange heat singing though him. “I could have loved a man like you.”

“Pity neither of us the marrying kind,” he smirked.

She gave him a sad smile in return.

“How do you know d’Artagnan?” he asked in a rushed voice.

“Who?”

“You called him Charles.”

She blinked as she searched the name out, a soft smile growing on her features.

“As I said before, I met him in Lupiac a year and a half ago.” She tucked some of her wavy, blonde hair behind her ear. “I was trying to live as a common woman for once and ended up meeting him when I rented a room at the inn.”

“And he never spoke to you?”

“Not with words,” she admitted. “Not until last night.”

Athos blushed, wondering what the boy had said to earn such a wistful expression from the woman before him.

“He tends to not speak to people unless they either have his trust or it’s necessary.”

She nodded in a sagely manner. “Sounds like him.”

“Did…anyone tell you anything about him?” Athos asked. Ninon blinked again, searching for something. After a moment, she pursed her lips and nodded.

“One girl did,” she said, her voice cracking. “Said something about it being a miracle he was alive after…her exact words were ‘what happened’ and no one ever elaborated on it but…I once saw him outside a burnt house.”

Athos’s heart tightened in his chest.

“What was he doing?”

“Sitting under a tree, staring at the place.”

“You didn’t ask him, or anyone else, what it was about or what happened there?” Athos asked, unable to believe she’d let such an instance slide without her brand of questioning. She licked her lips, head jerking to look at the wet trees around them.

“When I was watching him under that tree…It was as if I couldn’t leave him alone but couldn’t go any closer…so I didn’t.”

They stood in silence for a moment, Athos wishing to know more yet wishing to leave it alone. It was Ninon who moved first, striding to the buggy with an airy confidence only a noble could possess. He held her hand as she stepped up to the seat.

“Be safe, Athos.”

He bowed in reply, the buggy bumping away from him as he watched. He was almost proud when she looked back at him but it was short lived.

“I should have married a woman like you.”

* * *

Fleur Baudin was a bit of an idiot. She was too happy to know her father wasn’t marrying her off and was allowing her to continue her education that the look that crossed Constance’s face never registered. A woman changed Baudin’s mind but it wasn’t Ninon. Constance, to her credit, kept the disappointment’s time on her face brief.

“You changed Baudin’s mind,” he stated.

“Don’t be silly.”

He smiled at her back, thinking it over. She was truly wonderful, pleading for a girl she had no relation to past through her marriage. She’d put up with him and his two friends – though it was beginning to look as if Charlotte would be retreating to the safety of the Court now that Radha was gone – as well his three brothers. He’d put her into compromising situations and she’d gone along with it, saying she’d never want her old day-to-day life back.

“Finest woman I’ve ever met,” he blurted. It was becoming a habit apparently for him to blurt things out. “I don’t think I’ve met a more generous soul in all of France,” he continued, knowing his words to be truer than they should have been.

“Stop that,” she hissed, placing a hand over his mouth. His took her wrist in a gentle hold as she scolded him for embarrassing her.

“What if I want to embarrass you?” he asked as he held her hand in his. “Why shouldn’t I list all the reasons I love you.”

And there it was. His confession of his feelings. It sounded so simple and perfect yet, he couldn’t help but look towards the window behind her as he realized what he’d just done. He hadn’t let anyone know – well, no one who would have blurted it out to those who didn’t have any business knowing – and it was him who let it leek out.

He really needed to work on not blurting secrets again. This was getting idiotic.

Time to retreat.

“Of course…when I say that, I mean…that I admire and…respect…”

“Say it again.”

“I admire and respect you,” he said.

“Not that, you idiot.”

“…I love you.”

He was leaning in before he knew what he was doing. It didn’t seem to matter seeing as she reached for him back. Things clattered around them as he pushed her back into the cutting table by the window, tossing his pistol to the floor. Part of him knew it probably should have gone off but he didn’t rightly care as he tugged the buckles at his waist free, Constance tossing his sword away with a thud and a clatter.

He didn’t even notice moving until they were falling onto his bed, his waist light, the ties of her corset twined around his fingers. Their lips had barely separated as they’d moved about, dumping clothes and weapons about the house let alone when he’d kicked his door shut.

Part of him knew this was a bad idea; he’d been preaching it for months now. Yet, as he leaned over her, he found he didn’t care. He’d admitted his feelings and felt lighter thanks to it. She had accepted him which made his heart sing. And, while it was rude of him to think back to Radha, he couldn’t help but think that she’d be happy for him; for his finally finding a woman he couldn’t get enough of.

“Kiss me,” Constance ordered. He smirked and pressed his lips to hers.

“As you wish,” he whispered, when he finally came up for air.


	41. Understandings and Commissions

Athos was drunk.

Aramis sighed as he stared at his friend drinking in a corner of a pub they all frequented. He and Porthos had been searching for Athos for _hours_ since Ninon had been ‘cleared’ of her crimes. The Cardinal was returned home to his offices and the King was pleased that things had worked out – though he seemed unhappy at the death of Ninon.

He wasn’t exactly surprised at the sight. Athos being drunk was a normal thing in all honesty. Athos lived on wine and bread in the least secular reasoning. There was nothing holy within Athos’ diet, though, Aramis knew there was an element of prayer to what Athos did to himself.

“Let’s deal with it,” Porthos sighed as he shrugged and sauntered over to Athos.

They plopped onto the bench with a bit more clatter than was probably necessary. It could have been the weapons on their waists but Aramis had a sneaking suspicion it was because they wanted to let Athos know they were there.

Athos stared at them with bleary eyes that were glossed over from drink. There was a bit of something Aramis knew as love loss hidden in the swimming gaze that greeted him but he kept his mouth shut. Porthos waved the barmaid down and asked for stew and wine for them all, turning back to stare at Athos once she flitted away.

They sat in silence as Athos continued to drain his mug, waiting for the food and drink. The silence continued as they ate, Porthos and Aramis doing so slowly while Athos just looked at his food askance.

Porthos, being a man of unending hunger, snatched up Athos’ stew once he’d finished his bowl. Aramis swatted him though it was a weak hit to say the least. Part of him had already known that Athos wouldn’t eat but the doctor in him disliked the idea of Athos drinking on an empty stomach – there was no question that Athos hadn’t eaten before going to the pub.

“Charles d’Artagnan.”

The man’s voice was cracking as he spoke, the wine heavy on his tongue and breath. Aramis cocked his head, barely able to contain the snide crack of ‘he speaks’.

“What about d’Artagnan,” Porthos grunted around the not as hot as it should be stew he’d stolen from Athos. “You worried over him? Think he’ll do something stupid while we’re not looking?”

“Charles,” Athos insisted. Aramis and Porthos glanced at each other in confusion, their eyes sliding back to Athos. He rolled his eyes at them though his head lolled uneasily thanks to the wine.

“Yes?” Aramis prompted.

“The boy I gave the trinket to,” Athos slurred. “His name was Charles.”

“That’s nice,” Porthos grunted as he sipped at his wine.

“Let him speak,” Aramis growled, swatting Porthos’ arm with a little more incentive.

“That hurt,” Porthos whined.

“Athos,” Aramis urged.

“Charles d’Artagnan,” Athos repeated, this time slowly so the name was clear though the wine and lack of sleep.

Porthos’ spoon dropped into the stew with a wet plop as he stared Athos down, a flurry on expressions dancing through his eyes. Aramis recognized the amazement and shock almost as quickly as he recognized as the raw anger that finally settled.

“Now he admits it,” Porthos growled.

“Porthos,” Aramis chided, placing a hand on Porthos’ arm as Athos bowed his head. “You believe us now then?”

Athos nodded.

“Still don’t excuse him for those _months_ of being a right ass,” Porthos grumbled though it was weak in comparison to his earlier growl.

“I had a reason,” Athos ground out, his voice lacking his slurring.

“And what, pray tell, was _that_?” Porthos groused.

Athos hesitated for a moment before he managed to straighten his back a bit. He cleared his throat, eyes set on his wine.

“The trinket was on a chain with a time piece his father gave him,” Athos mumbled more to his drink than to them.

Porthos frowned then, clearly remembering how the trinket had required a chain to be put onto once he’d found d’Art. Aramis remembered that particular conversation too. So, how did the trinket end up without its original chain and decorative partner?

Aramis blinked.

“The scar,” Aramis breathed. Porthos’ eyes went wide, his breathing halting for a moment.

“Charles was opinionated when he was little,” Athos mused, a dark chuckle boiling at the back of his throat.

“I’ll agree to that,” Aramis sighed as he leaned his elbows onto the table and pressed his face into his hands. Porthos sighed at his side.

They lapsed into silence again, Aramis nursing a headache while Porthos pressed his shoulder against Aramis’. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Athos, unsure he’d like anything he saw there. Aramis instinctively knew guilt and sorrow would be there though he wasn’t sure what it was going to be over.

“He was five the last time I saw him,” Athos mumbled miserably.

“Turned six the spring I met him,” Porthos mumbled, just as miserably, rubbing his brow with his fingertips.

“Was ten when Savoy happened,” Aramis muttered.

“Ugh,” Porthos groaned as he too leaned his head into one of his hands. “Of all the things…We’re all idiots.”

“How do you figure?” Aramis grumbled.

“We never knew d’Art and Athos knew each other but the lot of us are friends,” Porthos snarled. “Could have nipped this early.”

“I never spoke of Gascony in detail,” Athos slurred. “How were you to know I knew him without evidence to support the idea let alone spark it?”

Porthos and Aramis gave low sighs as Athos slugged down his wine. Athos preferred to savor his wine so the jerking back of his drink spoke rather loudly.

The lapsed back into silence, Porthos waving for more food and drink once he caught the barmaid’s attentions again. She brought more stew and this time, Athos tucked into the food like it was a safe haven on a winter’s night. Porthos ate slowly, his movements stiff as he ate. Aramis probably looked like he did, his arms not quite communicating with the rest of his body.

It took them far longer than they would have liked to realize they’d been joined by a fourth. The fourth was Tréville, in the flesh, and he seemed rather pleased with himself as he joined them.

“I’ve spoken with the King,” Tréville sighed with a smile.

The three shared a look, Athos seemingly more sober than he had been at the start of the meal.

“This a good thing or not?” Porthos asked.

Tréville rolled his eyes with a sigh. “I’ve informed the King of d’Art and the boy’s usefulness to us as a Regiment.”

Athos looked strangely panicked then. “No…”

“The King has decided he’d be a good recruit,” Tréville announced, a large smile on his face though he showed no teeth. He wasn’t a man to show teeth when it wasn’t needed. “Once the boy proves himself, the King will be willing to grant him a commission.”

“ _Prove himself?!_ ” Porthos and Aramis hissed in chorus as Athos whined and slammed his head to the table. Tréville held up a hand as he gave Athos a confused stare.

“The King is aware of his deeds and yet he _still_ has to prove himself?” Aramis growled. “Captain, is it truly necessary?”

“To the King, it is,” Tréville sighed. “I had to explain the boy’s upbringing–.” There was a groan from Athos that almost sounded like he’d been hit. Tréville glanced at him but continued. “He’s decided to consider all of d’Art’s work with you louts–,” Aramis made a noise of derision only to get swatted by Porthos, “–as pardon for any crimes he may have committed growing up.”

“Need I remind you that the Court isn’t made up solely of criminals?” Porthos grumbled.

“No but the King, sadly, is only aware of certain things,” Tréville whispered, his wish to show nothing but loyalty coloring his actions. “How drunk are you, Athos?”

“No,” Athos snarled, his head shooting up from the table.

“No, what?” Tréville asked with a sigh, apparently not willing to deal with Athos’ strangeness about the announcement.

“No, damn it.”

“I think Athos wants d’Art to remain on the periphery,” Aramis translated. Porthos rolled his eyes in response.

“Well, _he_ doesn’t want to stay there,” Tréville responded as calmly as he dared.

“And you know this because…” Porthos prompted with a raised brow.

“He’s told me as such,” Tréville retorted. “After Radha…” He waved a hand with a rough growl of a sigh. “He’s not returning to the Court and he’s got nowhere else to go so, I told him I would speak to the King. I have done that and so, now, I will speak to d’Art about how he should go about gaining his commission.”

Athos groaned, shaking his head.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Athos!” Porthos growled. “Now isn’t the time to be protective of him! Not when he’s earned nothing but our respect.”

“He’s not thinking straight,” Athos tried though his eyes betrayed how he really felt.

“d’Art does nothing _but_ think straight,” Aramis sighed. He turned to Tréville. “Closest thing to a blessing s you’re going to get. So, how can we help the boy?”


	42. The Challenge: Part 1

Athos’ memory of Gascony had dimmed somewhat since his last visit. Given, his last visit hadn’t gone very well. He’d gone to Gascony to escape his guilt for hanging his wife, to speak to Old Alexandre for advice. Instead, he’d found himself in the rain, staring at what he remembered still as a home, and sinking his knees into the mud as he sunk into a depression over the loss of a child he knew as a brother.

It seemed the only person he’d really lost had been Thomas.

 _She_ was still alive, haunting the shadows and smirking at him from afar. D’Art was proving he was, indeed, the boy from Gascony that Athos had loved. Though, none of them could find the words to speak of the utter miracle it was once Athos had told Aramis and Porthos _why_ he’d thought that child dead.

Tréville’s words on the King’s decision had also begun to ring truer with each passing day. Flea had snatched Porthos aside to ask how d’Art was doing since he’d cut all ties with the Court, promising she was always a friend to them all. Charlotte had sent her own good wishes, promising willingness to help Tréville and the Musketeers should they need it. The whole of Court was friends to d’Art and Porthos again so the sudden influx of possible spies had been a bit overwhelming. Athos could only take being hissed at from alleyways so often before he’d nearly shot some poor sod for giving him a startle – a startle of which he’d never admit having aloud.

A few older Musketeers had voiced some unease at the boy’s wish to join them becoming clear so soon after a loss. They worried the boy wasn’t thinking straight. It would have been comforting had Athos not noticed the heavy truth present within those words. Tréville and d’Art were seen talking in shadows daily, the boy frowning in frustration as Tréville calmed him. It wasn’t a matter of royal blood – d’Art had none – or of patronage – Tréville had given it already – that d’Art was frowning. It was the slowness of everything.

Porthos had asked d’Artagnan once if what ‘they’d heard’ was true; was he going to join the Regiment and if so, what was his reasoning. They didn’t want him to make a decision without thinking over the consequences. D’Art had given a kind speech of how he’d been planning to join sooner but had things to sort out.

Things that he said weren’t completely sorted but mostly sorted.

Porthos was the first to remind them that this had probably been coming since Therron while Aramis and Athos tried to reign in their feelings on the matter. Aramis was torn between the facts that he knew and his fear for the boy’s safety while Athos was plain trapped in an overprotective hover when d’Artagnan – they’d taken to calling him that once they’d gotten the news from Tréville, though they kept it from the others in the Regiment – was present. They all admitted that they knew the boy could handle himself and was far from young enough to be called a boy.

That being said, however, the entire lot of them were stuck on the idea that d’Artagnan was their youngest, their brother, and far too likely to disappear should the wind change in the wrong damned way. He’d disappeared on Athos for twenty years. He’d disappeared on Porthos and Aramis for two as well.

They’d made it clear that where they went, so did d’Artagnan.

Which was what led them to the strange circumstances of sitting in an inn in Gascony, watching in gaping mouthed amazement as the Inn Keeper’s daughter gushed to d’Artagnan about the goings on in the town. They had watched as anyone who could have been around d’Artagnan’s age greeted him with cries of amazement and joy. One boy had almost dragged him from Zad’s back in his exuberance.

_“How long’re you staying?”_

_“Who are they?”_

_“That sword of yours looks rather well cared for.”_

_“What’s Paris like?”_

Aramis had nearly shoved his way through the people who’d crowded their youngest while they all rested from the long ride, an overprotective shine in his eyes. They had a mission to carry out but after getting saddle sore, all four of them had wanted to just take the night. Athos hadn’t been surprised when the old Inn Keeper and the Smithy who recognized him but the onslaught of young adults practically leaping onto d’Art had been rather unexpected.

“I see we’ve found where he was for the last two years,” Aramis sighed as he leaned against the table, his chin cupped in his hand before it dragged itself through his hair. Porthos had his chin on his folded arms as he watched the young adults hug and wrestle d’Art about.

“He came here?” Porthos asked incredulously.

“His home town,” Athos whispered.

“ _This_ place?” Porthos hissed unbelievingly. Athos glared at him and he promptly let his attentions fall back to the group of young ones.

“Surely, he’ll let us know what all this is about,” Aramis mused. He frowned as another young woman leaned down to whisper in d’Art’s ear. “Once he’s managed to free himself, that is.”

“Don’t see that happening all too soon,” Porthos grumbled.

His eyes narrowed further as the girl draped an arm around d’Art’s shoulders. She wasn’t by any means unpleasant to look at, yet Porthos was far more used to d’Art being unable to put up with the idea of being touched. There had been plenty of struggles when d’Art was younger where the boy would refuse to allow anyone other than Porthos to touch him. Teaching him to shoot had been…interesting, if Aramis’ stories were _anything_ to go off of.

“There’s improvement for you,” Aramis sighed into his pint. “Remember how hard it was to get him into the right shooting stance?”

“That’s why I’m glaring,” Porthos growled.

Aramis sighed, taking a deep drag of alcohol. Athos polished off his pint, staring at the group leaning against the bar, circling around d’Art. It was the happiest they’d seen him in a while – happiest since Radha’s passing and Charlotte’s retreating into the Court of Miracles. He was _talking_ to people for god’s sake. It was nearly miraculous.

“Thank you,” they heard d’Art chime before he clawed his way free of the crowd and over to their table.

“Well?” Athos asked, trying to sound as distant as he usually was.

“They all corroborated the stories that have been filtering into Paris about what’s happening,” the young man stated. “Bandits are stealing the revenue from all over Gascony and burning farms that refuse to bow to them.”

“A protection racket then?” Aramis mused aloud. “How droll.”

“Not to the people losing their homes,” Porthos muttered as he reached for his mug. Some of the amber liquid spilt down his chin as he downed the whole thing in one swig. “Gah…this is right swill, this is.”

“It’s better than some of the cheap wine I’ve seen you drink,” d’Art groused as Porthos wiped at his chin.

“Not so,” Porthos grunted.

“Enough,” Athos sighed. “Anything else being said?”

“The bandits are led by a man called Lebarge,” d’Artagnan explained as he turned a mug around on the table. “He’s probably the only reason the bandits still run about as well. Many here claim he’s got them all scared of retaliation should they anger him in any way.”

“Sounds tenuous,” Athos murmured. D’Art nodded.

“We just take Lebarge in then?” Porthos asked.

“Possibly,” d’Art stated. “He’s probably the one who is the cause of most of the turmoil around here. From what I’ve heard, he killed a couple Musketeers too.” The boy shrugged.  “He’ll be the one to hold most of the judgment from the King either way.”

“Then, I guess we’re looking for him,” Aramis groaned. “Where to begin?”

“He’s likely to arrive back here in a couple of days,” d’Art suggested.

“Alright,” Athos muttered. “We come up with a plan while we rest. Besides, there are a few people I should catch up with around here.”

* * *

It took a day too long to find Lebarge’s trail; even with d’Artagnan’s superior tracking ability. That was the only thing that kept Athos from growling at his companions – yet another mystery about d’Art popping up. He found himself wishing he knew more about those two decades he’d missed but even Porthos and Aramis couldn’t tell him how the young man had learned tracking.

Apparently, it was one of the things that occurred during those two years no one knew about.

However, upon finding the man, the four of them were a bit stumped on dealing with someone that…towering and lumbering.

“He has to outweigh Aramis,” Porthos mumbled as they pressed themselves into the dirt, peering over the hill to watch the man bark orders at his lackeys.

“Well surely,” Aramis hissed. “He must outweigh Athos and you combined.”

“Are you calling us fat?” Porthos grunted, a sly smirk crossing his face.

“Well, you two _are_ heavier than I am,” Aramis snickered.

Athos rolled his eyes, not bothering to mention they weren’t dragging d’Art into the conversation; or the competition. He had a feeling that the boy’s ability to scale a wall in the blink of an eye was a deciding factor in the decision. Maybe, it was their history with the boy but Athos was willing to bet the boy’s ability was a greater factor in the decision.

Athos glanced over to d’Artagnan, a bit unnerved by the way the boy’s eyes bored into the large man they were hunting. D’Artagnan had gotten into that unearthly quiet ever since they’d laid eyes on Lebarge, his lips drawn in a thin line. Athos placed a hand over d’Artagnan’s hand. Shocked and somewhat glazed over browns met his eyes, the hand under his flinching away.

“What?” d’Art asked.

“You alright?”

“…I’m fine.”

“He’s leaving,” Aramis chimed, shifting down the hill. “Let’s follow and catch the bastard.”

“Sure,” d’Artagnan whispered, ducking away from Athos quickly.

“That’s…concerning,” Porthos muttered.

“Indeed,” Athos mumbled as he followed the two men, Porthos on his heels.

He was getting tired of his head spiraling with questions. He was tired of his questions being answered only to be replaced with new questions. He was tired of not knowing what the hell happened to the boy he saw as a brother.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Athos muttered to himself.


	43. The Challenge: Part 2

“I think they need our help,” Athos sighed in the tone of a man who was immeasurably done with the stupidity he was surrounded with on a daily basis.

Lebarge had been…difficult to capture. He weighed almost as much as Porthos and was about as quick as Athos and as deceptively strong as d’Artagnan. It had taken all four of them risking their ribs and jaws to get a grip on the man long enough to knock him out.

Then, there had been the risks of Lebarge trying to tip their horses with the rope they’d bound him with – an occurrence that nearly worked all of once. D’Artagnan was still sporting a bruised side from his fall and Porthos had been complaining his knuckles still hurt from his well-placed punch.

Porthos had been nominated to lead the man from then on seeing as his had the steadiest footed horse amongst them. Not to mention, once Lebarge had nearly tipped d’Artagnan’s horse, Zad wouldn’t let the man near him or his owner. That was probably a blessing though since d’Art had refused to speak since they’d caught Lebarge. Well, he’d refused to speak while near their prisoner and even while away from the man, he was tense.

The lad had also taken to checking his scarf hid his neck every chance he got.

“They’re just too shy to ask,” Aramis quipped in his usual quick fashion.

Athos rolled his eyes. He was really getting tired of the Red Guards and the Cardinal getting in their way. The warrant for arrest was one thing but Athos had been as diplomatic as possible when he warned the men that the place of transfer wasn’t the wisest. Lebarge was not to be trifled with.

And the Red Guards weren’t known for their gentle handling of prisoners.

_“Don’t say we didn’t warn you,” d’Art had said._

_“This should be fun,” Porthos had muttered after Lebarge had been kicked by the horse bound captain._

He took down maybe two men before Athos had spoken up, his fears for the gaping civilians coming forward. He couldn’t even blame the civilians for staring but did no one have a sense of self-preservation left in them?

The first of them to go flying was Porthos, as expected. Athos was the second and Aramis the third. D’Artagnan had a rather rough hit to the jaw but, as little fazed him, he didn’t stop what he was doing. It took all four of them to drag Lebarge down to the ground again and it was mostly thanks to d’Art, Porthos, and Aramis being so damned in sync with each other.

“Musketeer scum!”

_And the fun truly begins_ , Athos thought as he drew his sword.

* * *

Tréville tended to think of himself as a calm man who could rationalize just about anything and wasn’t easily riled up – when he didn’t have to deal with the Cardinal. However, having his four best – and yes, he considered d’Artagnan as one of his best – end up in a duel because a Red Guard was too stupid to admit they would require his men’s help.

Lebarge had killed two Musketeers and, unlike Red Guards, Tréville liked to have his men well trained. Athos had stated that the transfer wouldn’t be safe to do in a public street no less. It was irritating having to listen to Richelieu complain that he should have had first call on Lebarge’s arrest. It was irritating listening to the King decide a _wager_ was more important than settling the matter outright.

Though, in all honesty, Tréville was more annoyed that there was another damned stumbling block in the way. It had been weeks since d’Artagnan had confided that he’d been planning on being a Musketeer and, while Tréville had done all that he could to push this commission forward, there was always _something_ in the way. The King had documents to be delivered, the Cardinal was scheming, or they had to capture a man all the way out in _Gascony_. Now, there was to be a damned tournament?

There was always something in the way.

He tossed his gloves onto his desk with an irritated sigh. He wasn’t sure how this all had come to pass though he was aware the Cardinal had his fingers in the pot – as he always did.

Lebarge had started out as a tax collector who’d, as the Cardinal put so eloquently, over exceeded his authority. The idea had been laughable. He hadn’t exceeded authority; he’d commandeered it and let himself fall victim to his violent tendencies. Now, he was nothing more than a brigand whose name made up most of the complaints piled on Tréville’s desk.

Complaints he had to go through.

Complaints and reports he wished to avoid reading for they were mostly in Gascony and Tréville wished to not remember the good friend he hadn’t managed to meet again. He was almost fearful of rereading the letter concerning his friend, the report concerning his farm; the haunted look in d’Art’s eyes flashing in his thoughts.

There was still the matter that Athos had had with Radha as well. What had he wanted to ask of her? What had he been expecting? There was the concern that Athos knew something else that Tréville had missed. Tréville was tired of missing things; especially when it came to d’Artagnan.

He glared at the old letter, rereading what he’d known for years. The farm house had been burned to the ground. He’d assumed it had been done by bandits due to the times and the ease that the thought brought him. He couldn’t control bandits or their actions and therefore, it wasn’t his fault his friend was dead and d’Artagnan ended up in Paris.

Though, how a five-year-old ended up in Paris and taken in by the vagabonds of the Court of Miracles eluded him still.

He went through the rest of the report, forcing his eyes to the page and to not allow personal vendettas to get in the way of what he saw or thought. It continued to say the same story though; no one was sure what had happened, who’d done it, but they were all sure that a child had been heard screaming as horses rushed away.

A knock roused him from his musings, a messenger standing at his door nervously.

“From the Cardinal,” the man said. “Charges for Lebarge.”

Tréville nodded, taking the page and shooing the man off. He sighed as he looked at it.

“Damn,” he whispered, the page falling back to his desk. “Damn.”

* * *

Constance couldn’t believe how alright she was with what she was doing.

All the times she’d stood before a mirror while telling herself she loved her husband trickled to mind as she kissed d’Artagnan. It was wrong of her to kiss this marvelous, wonderful, kind, handsome boy but it didn’t feel as such. It was wrong of her to hold him the way she did but she found herself fitting against him like they’d been made for each other.

The way he’d held her had sent shivers up her spine for she knew there was something akin to worship in the way those hands slid up and down her body. The way his eyes held hers while they both climaxed; as if she were the only thing worth looking at in the world.

Her husband preferred traveling, leaving her at home, treating her like nothing more than a servant he was obligated to allow into his presence. He’d never really treated her with any sort of respect, always worried over his position and how she reflected on his ability to be a man of stature. The way Bonacieux talked about d’Art’s rent being late or how he had no commission in sight made her boil with anger at his bluntness.

Though, the way he had started looking at d’Artagnan had her worried. If he was aware….If he was, she would likely be left to make a decision she had no heart to make.

Bonacieux was her husband and she was obligated to love and cherish him as she’d vowed in church. He was an ass. If she left him – especially for another man – she’d be labeled a whore with morals which would soil her family’s name as well as her own. Her friends would avoid her and the scandal would last until the day she died.

D’Artagnan was living with them, had nothing to his name save a record, had gotten his rent through odd jobs that he was no longer taking part in, and was only just committing to becoming a Musketeer. He was a god send. Yet, he was young and only had experience in being a fighter. He’d likely die before he could bless her with anything other than heartache and confusion.

How could she possibly choose?

* * *

“What’s going on?” d’Art whispered to Athos as he entered the oddly crowded courtyard.

“There’s to be a competition between us and the Red Guards,” Athos stated calmly, though his eyes were smiling.

“Each side will choose a champion to settle which Regiment is greater,” Porthos whispered, his body practically thrumming with excitement.

“As if there were ever a doubt,” Aramis chuckled.

“How is the champion to be chosen?” the young man asked, his voice being thrown over the heads of the other Musketeers to the Captain.

“Competitive trials,” Tréville explained, his eyes fixed on Porthos who was grinning like an idiot and barely managing to _not_ bounce like a child. “With a thirty livre buy in.”

The joy of the crowd diminished rather quickly then, Porthos grunting out a horrified exclamation at the price. D’Artagnan tried to ignore the groans as he adjusted his scarf.

“It’s for a prize purse,” Tréville assured them. “Winner takes all.”

Porthos smiled again, eyes glinting with glee when he glanced to d’Artagnan. All d’Art could think, besides the fact that this was a chance to prove himself for the King, was the purse would get Bonacieux off his back for a little while. With Radha’s death and his cutting ties with the Court – though he kept spotting Flea in alleyways, waving at him and blowing kisses – he’d lost his income.

Not that he wanted anything to do with the old ways he’d gotten his money anymore. That life had cost him plenty as it was.

“Remember,” Tréville called, his eyes still fixed on d’Art’s group of friends, “this is about the honor of the Musketeers. Not the money.”

D’Art had enough heart to listen a little longer, already knowing that the buy in would likely have a catch. He tried to ignore how his chest tightened when Tréville stated only Musketeers were allowed to buy in.

“May the best man of us win,” Aramis said as he poured out wine between himself, Porthos, and Athos.

“Those of us allowed to compete,” he mumbled as he tossed his knife about in his hands, sitting across the bottom of the steps as the rest of the Regiment went about cleaning the muskets and sharpening their swords.

“You’re a Musketeer,” Athos stated. “In all but name. You only lack is the King’s Commission.”

Aramis smiled at him, insisting he go and ask Tréville if he was serious about adding himself to the roster of fighters. Porthos however, pointed out the entry fee which had d’Art sighing in defeat. He had no money damn it. Neither did Porthos or Aramis if their speech was anything to go off of.

Patronesses indeed.

At least they had pauldrons to use to garner favor.

He only had his stubbornness and – what he surely hoped was – his good relations with Captain Tréville.

“I’m ready,” he said as he strode into the man’s office with an air of determination he hadn’t felt in a long while since his accidental confession to Constance. “I need your permission, but I’m ready.”

Tréville gazed at him, a serious light in his old eyes that barely hid an uncertainty.

“No guarantee you’ll win,” he said.

“I’m not asking for a favor,” d’Artagnan muttered. “Just a chance.”

Tréville frowned at him, sighing through his nose. D’Artagnan had a flash of recognition and wondered if this was where Athos had learned that little trick.

“You’d be up against our best,” Tréville tried. The attempt was recognized and only somewhat appreciated.

“I know,” d’Artagnan said with a soft voice and smile.

He was aware. He knew Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were going to compete; one way or another. He knew where they stood in skill. He knew he wasn’t as good as them but he was sure he could hold his own against anyone in the Regiment. He could keep up with the Three Inseparables, after all.

Tréville gave another sigh, his head bowing. He lifted a small sheet of paper from his desk.

“It’s a list of charges from the Cardinal,” he explained as d’Art took the page. “I…I’ve only now learned who burned your home, I’m ashamed to say.”

D’Artagnan read over the report, both gladdened and feeling cursed that he’d learned how to read when he was younger. Athos and Aramis were good teachers.

“I’m sorry, d’Artagnan,” Tréville whispered. “I’ll make sure justice is done, if that’s any comfort.”

D’Artagnan sighed, placing the paper back on the desk as he nodded.

“Thought I recognized him,” he whispered, turning to leave before Tréville could stop him.

He was out in the archway before he realized, his eyes brimming with tears. He leaned against the wall, sliding to the ground in silence. His world was slipping away again, memories of fire and fear raging forward. He stared at the metal of his rapier’s hilt, admiring the smoke damage on the rings and the crosspiece.

He’d been told it was a minor miracle the sword had so few imperfections after being in that blaze but d’Artagnan didn’t think it was a miracle. He’d thought of it more as his father defending something for his son. As if he’d known d’Artagnan was losing more than they could all imagine.


	44. The Challenge: Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If only I would stop finding distractions that keep me from re-watching "The Musketeers". I'm starting "Knight Takes Queen" soon though, I don't know when that's going to happen.

Porthos would have to give Aramis some credit. He knew where to find women who were likely willing to give patronage to destitute idiots like themselves. Though, Porthos had never really been one to poach from a recently widowed woman.

Even ones as lovely as Alice Clerbeaux.

She wasn’t slow either, highly aware that he was lying through his teeth though she seemed willing to playing along. Her wit was just as stunning as her features as well. It was only right of him to walk her home once they’d managed to bond a bit over the ‘way he’d met her husband’. Besides, if she was tired of being cooped up, he wasn’t going to begrudge her a slow walk home if that was what she wished for.

He thought it rather sweet actually.

He had a feeling she’d look even lovelier when she was able to dress in clothes that weren’t solely meant for mourning.

* * *

Constance had a feeling her words weren’t quite making it through to d’Artagnan. Ill timing seemed to have won quite the landfall that week.

There was the fear that her husband, finally arriving after weeks of travel, might suspect how she and d’Artagnan felt by how they interacted. There was this Lebarge fellow who seemed to haunt d’Artagnan’s every move. Now, there was to be a competition between the two guard Regiments. One that would likely bring d’Artagnan recognition should he compete but had a rather hefty entry fee.

He had gone so far as to think less of himself due to the circumstances; fearing what she thought of him as he was penniless and ‘without prospects’. As if he thought she’d run from him for being ‘worth’ less than her merchant husband. She’d fallen in love with him because he respected her, taught her to fight, and taught her that not all men were bound by the ‘rules’ of society.

“Where am I going to find thirty livre?” he asked, still sounding despondent.

She had an idea.

* * *

Porthos and Aramis were off trying to win patronesses, much to Athos’ amused displeasure. He hadn’t expected them to ever ask him for coin though. He’d stopped expecting that some time ago, if he were being honest. He knew those two would find a way to buy in so he’d let all three of his companions go off on their own while he made sure to squirrel away some coin for his own entry fee payment.

He hadn’t expected to find d’Artagnan sulking when he returned though.

He wasn’t even given time to ask the boy what had happened when Tréville had pulled him aside to speak. News of the charges against Lebarge weren’t exactly surprising though hearing the solution to certain mystery coming from his captain’s mouth had been a bit…interesting.

“You mean to tell me,” Athos stated in a slow manner so he could contain his emotions. “Your old friend was d’Art’s _father_?”

“Yes,” Tréville sighed, seemingly ashamed of the secret that – to be fair – had slipped from him rather unexpectedly. They’d been talking about charges when Tréville had said the fatal words of one of his friends being killed, their son apparently appearing before him as their favorite little thief, d’Art.

“Well,” Athos breathed. “ _That’s_ enlightening.”

Tréville’s caring for the boy, his unwillingness to leave him alone after Radha, and his – now that Athos thought about it – uneasy decision to have d’Art as a recruit suddenly made so much more sense. It didn’t lessen Athos’ irritation as he realized this was another secret the man was keeping from them all.

 _Again_.

Tréville glared at him. “I’m sorry for keeping it from you lot but it was the right decision.”

“Oh, _quite_.”

“Look,” Tréville growled. “I hate hiding things from my men but, like Savoy, there is a need for secrecy. First of all being that his parents were killed in a blaze set by Lebarge.”

“Lebarge,” Athos hissed.

“Yes,” Tréville whispered.

“Is he aware?” Athos asked. “Does d’Art know?”

Tréville sighed, nodding in defeat. “He does.”

Athos let his eyes close as he sighed through his nose. This was getting ridiculous.

“So, among the other charges, Lebarge was the reason d’Art even managed to end up in Paris near twenty years ago?” Athos muttered. At Tréville’s nod, he felt his stomach twist. “And d’Art’s aware that this man, the man he helped us capture, is the one who took his family from him?”

“Yes…” Tréville admitted.

Athos didn’t enjoy the way his stomach whirled about at the proposition. He could understand the captain’s reasoning to keep this as quiet as possible. The fact that d'Art was a long dead friend’s long lost son would lead many to suspect favoritism. The fact that Lebarge had taken the boy’s family from him would leave the other Musketeers to be protective – for it was Radha all over again.

“I’ll try to keep him calm,” Athos muttered before he left.

That was how he found himself practicing with d’Artagnan that day, attempting to warn him that talent wouldn’t keep him alive if he continued to let his heart rule his head. This plan, naturally, went about as well as it had when he’d tried giving it to himself. It didn’t help the other men were gossip mongers and were whispering about Lebarge being held in the Bastille.

Not that the gossiping really angered him though. No, it was the insinuations. Lebarge in a private room, his needs attended to as if her were a king. It struck him as odd that d’Art didn’t rise to the not so hushed whispers though, there was anger in those eyes.

“Don’t do anything rash,” Athos pleaded when they were done, sweat falling over their brows like rivers. “I beg you not to do anything rash.”

D’Artagnan gave him an innocent expression. “Why, Athos, have you no faith in me?”

He had all his faith in d’Artagnan, actually. It didn’t help the boy was as predictable as Athos was himself.

* * *

Richelieu was taken aback by the sheer voracity of the young man who’d had just left him. It was like watching a younger Tréville gnashing his teeth at a threat. Yet, it was all done in a sweetly, calm voice that, somehow, lent more weight to the words.

The Cardinal wasn’t exactly sure how to tame the boy before him either when his offer of another Regiment was cast aside so easily, willing to wait for the King to commission him to the Musketeers. He’d even demanded for his rights in a calm voice that made Richelieu wonder if there were noble blood in his veins.

It didn’t help that Milady seemed to have a keen interest in the young man either.

“I feel sorry for him,” she said casually, a hand on her ribbon. “Living under that miserly fabric merchant, Bonacieux.”

“First Athos and now…d’Art.” Dear lord, the boy didn’t even have a proper _name_ to himself! “Your fascination with these Musketeers…seemingly inexhaustible.”

He sent her away with a warning of how her independent nature no longer held any sway over him, knowing he’d have to move quickly to get d’Art out of the way. Maybe the cloth merchant could be of help.

“I’m interested in your lodger,” he stated. “Find out who he sees, where he goes, and if he has any…interesting female companions.”

The last request was mostly his paranoia though, it may have been well founded. Aramis had stolen Adele after all. Milady was her own woman though not entirely free from his knowledge. Besides, if Milady was so interested, it was likely the boy had gained a few other friends he shouldn’t have.

* * *

The Bastille was a rather impressive bit of masonry, d’Artagnan would admit. He’d been a bit rash demanding his rights to the Cardinal but he likely wasn’t the only one making claims. He may be one of the very few making them in person though.

It was more his nature to do things in person.

That being said, he wasn’t an idiot. His heart may rule his head but he did have moments where his head took over. It was usually when he was contemplating his past and what his father might have wanted for him. It wasn’t an easy task. D’Artagnan knew the difficulty of attempting to remember what a father would have wanted him to do when he only had a five years with him.

So, with the thought of what his father would have wanted him to do, he stood outside in the rain, staring up at the Bastille. He was in the middle of imagining that one of the windows he was staring at was the one Lebarge was in when the rain decided to start down on him.

It had been welcomed though; it cooled his head until he could think straight again. He could think of the people he knew well enough to understand. Aramis and Porthos would hate for anything to happen to him. Flea and Charlotte would mourn him should he died – which, from his experience with Lebarge, he could imagine quite clearly. Tréville would blame himself.

Athos…

He wasn’t sure what Athos would think. Athos, the man he’d loved as a brother in the past and as a mentor now. Athos, the man who seemed to have forgotten him over the years and yet was as protective as he remembered. Athos liked giving advice; advice haunted by experience.

The rain continued to pour down on him, hiding the tears rushing down his cheeks as he continued to obsess over his dark thoughts. As glad as he was to be reunited with Athos, complete with his other two brothers, he’d lost a sister along the way and was now facing the man behind it all. The chance to prove himself had come but it was a fleeting one.

“Did I not tell you to not do anything rash?”

“Athos,” d’Artagnan whispered, glancing to his left to find Athos, soaked to the bone, watching him warily.

“What’ve you done since you left?” Athos asked after a long moment.

“Demanded my rights,” he mumbled.

“Rights?” Athos sputtered. “d’Artagnan, as far as the Cardinal is concerned, you don’t even have a _name_ to your person let alone any rights!”

“Because Lebarge burned my home,” d’Artagnan mumbled, taking a moment to relish the pained look of remembrance in Athos’ eyes. So he’d seen it, had he? Athos had seen the scar, seen the trinket, and seen the house.

“Tréville shouldn’t have told you about that,” Athos mumbled.

“He didn’t even have to!” d’Art yelled.

Athos’ eyes went wide for a second, his breathing halted and jerking. “What?” he gasped out.

“I knew him, Athos!” d’Art raged at his friend. “I knew him when I was little, when he burned the house and _killed_ my family!”

“d’Artagnan…” Athos whispered, his eyes sad as the rain hid any other signs of emotion. “I’m so sorry.”

“ _Why_?!” he yelled. “You weren’t even _there_!”

“Because I _wasn’t_ there!” Athos bellowed at him. “I wasn’t…there.”

D’Artagnan could only stare at him, his voice locked in his throat as he tried to comprehend what was being said to him. Had Athos…When had had Athos?

“You were adamant,” d’Art mumbled, hot tears rushing down his face. “We were certain I’m not someone you knew.”

“Someone I _know_ ,” Athos stated. “Someone I thought I’d lost like I’d lost Thomas but, like my wife, was wrong in thinking it.”

“Athos…”

“I was wrong to think you were dead when I had no…real proof,” Athos stated, a hand lifting to his brow and sending rain drops scattering outwards. “Though, in my defense, a burnt house and rumors that you’d been taken were compelling.”

“But…”

“Aramis and Porthos were right and I’m a fool,” Athos yelled, shaking d’Artagnan by his shoulders. “Just as you are a fool for not _thinking_ before you act!”

“Lebarge killed my family, Athos. Took all I had.”

“And left you to a better life,” Athos insisted. “You have a new family because of your loss; one that’s not likely to let you leave them again without a fight.”

D’Artagnan bent his head, sniffing and feeling like a child put in his place, as Athos pulled him close.

“I will not fail you again, d’Artagnan,” he whispered over the roar of the thunder and rain. “I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to never leave you without a family again.”

D’Artagnan nodded against his chest as he allowed his emotions to surface, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed into Athos’ jacket. He hadn’t been forgotten. His brother remembered him.

Athos wasn’t the only one who’d been wrong. He had been wrong to think ill of Athos, even with the evidence stacking against his friend. He’d been wrong too.

* * *

He’d sent d’Artagnan home, once the boy had stopped crying, with the promise that they’d train in the morning. They had more to speak about but Athos couldn’t bring himself to say anything more than what he’d already said. There would be time after this damned competition; when everyone else was as exhausted and blissful in the win – for they were certain they’d win against the Red Guards in an honorable manner.

For, surely, that was how things were going to occur. It was the way of the world.

“You’ve grown careless,” a sultry voice called out to him. “I could have killed you just now.”

He turned, finding _her_ standing there, the low light of the hanging moon beating down on her. The question of neutral ground came about from her. He quipped he wouldn’t attack a defenseless woman – though he knew her too well to think her defenseless. He was stupid but he wasn’t an all-out idiot. He’d marry the wrong woman, yes. He’d failed to kill her when she’d wronged, yes. He’d not allow her to destroy his new family; not when his youngest brother was returned to him again.

“Ask me anything,” she said.

The lack of possible questions astounded him. He already had an inkling as to how she had survived. She was a succubus of sorts. He could ask her intentions towards him but that would be pointless. She’d already told him that even if there’d been a hesitation in her actions. He almost wanted to ask to what lengths she’d go to get what she wanted from him but he was aware she’d likely go after anyone he cared about. She’d done it before.

“What’s your connection with the Cardinal?”

She smiled. “I have to make a living somehow and who could ask for a better patron?”

He stepped closer to her, part of him wondering why he hadn’t drawn a knife and held it to her throat. He should have been holding her a gunpoint or by the point of a blade. He should be holding her life in his hands like she’d held his in hers in his mansion.

“What, exactly, do you do for him?”

“I’m like you,” she said. “A soldier. Though, there are a few differences, but one must always exploit their natural…talents.”

And his could already see his soul being damned as she took hold of her locket, admiring it as if it were still something she held dear. He knew she held nothing dear; she’d proved it. They were inches apart, heads bent at angles he remembered all too well. Why did he still wear the stupid thing?

“Shall I show you why?” she asked as she pulled at the chain on his throat.

Yes, he was damned man. His lips met hers and he almost felt like a younger version of himself. It was like he’d fallen back to a simpler time. Back to when things were good and he’d been unaware. When he hadn’t know what she was capable of and when a boy he’d loved wasn’t growing up in Paris instead of on a farm in Gascony.

“Did you think I’d forgotten who you are,” he hissed as he pulled away from her touch. “What you did?”

Her face scrunched in an unpleasant manner as she gained an understanding as to his feelings. They couldn’t escape the past. His words, her actions. All spoke volumes.

“Word of warning, Athos,” she whispered. “Stay away from me…or you’ll learn a whole new meaning of regret.”

She left him in the street and he found himself wishing for the rain to return. The cold from earlier would have made his thoughts clearer.

* * *

Richelieu was a bit desperate if he were to be honest. It was stupid to ask this man, tyrant, monster, to be his champion. Lebarge had stolen money from his tax gatherings and possibly endangered lives of too many citizens to count. He’d killed Richelieu’s best fighter no less.

There was even a street rat child with no true name demanding recompense. Richelieu was still unsure as to what the boy thought he was owed; past Lebarge’s head but _everyone_ wanted that.

There was no trust in Richelieu’s offer. This man was too dangerous to trust with anything besides dealing out death and anguish. Though, that was what the Cardinal wished for.

* * *

The mystery woman was quite impressive looking in blue. It was interesting to watch her in daylight. Her skin was lighter than d’Artagnan would have imagined. It was also nice to see her out of black or red. Her hair was down for once too which left him wondering why she’d kept it up all the times before.

The money was a surprise.

“Why?” he asked.

“I’ve taken an interest,” she said with a soft smile that almost didn’t belong to her. “Also, we’re not complete strangers. Though, I do hope we can become…closer. In time.”

“What’s the catch?” he mumbled, averting his eyes. He was looking at the same woman but something had changed. He doubted it to be her motivations – not when she left her kills on men she kissed. Things like that didn’t change overnight.

“How suspicious you’ve grown,” she chided. “No catch. I only wish for you to able to compete.”

He gazed at her for a moment, unsure of how he felt about the way his chest was warming.

“I’ll accept it…as a loan,” he stated. “I’ll pay you back.”

“When you win, naturally.”

“When I win.”

She turned to leave him, as if she were a visiting ghost. He cleared his throat as he gazed at the small locket she’d passed him with the purse of coins.

“It’s a token of my friendship,” she explained. “And a little good luck charm.”

And she was gone once again. He was beginning to think he would have to call her _La Fantôme_ for all the disappearing acts.

“What’d she want?” Constance called, her hand on his arm, her eyes a bit buggy.

“She gave me this,” he mumbled, not sure why he was suddenly nervous of explaining himself. He held up the purse, a smile twitching at his lips. “I can compete now,” he added.

Constance glanced after the woman, his eyes wide with something that d’Artagnan thought looked like fear.

“You shouldn’t have taken it,” she said.

“I’ve only taken it as a loan,” he stated as he pocketed the purse. “I’ll handle it.”

“You sure about that?” she snapped.

“…Yes,” he said.

“Well,” she huffed, her skirts fanning out as she spun away from him. “Not like anyone else was just going to walk up and hand you thirty livre.”

“Right,” he mumbled.

* * *

Porthos had spent the entire day with Alice, nearly losing his mind as he stumbled with his words. He’d never been the one who was good with words. He was almost as bad as d’Art but even d’Art knew when and how to speak to certain people. Athos also had a way with his words; though he was careful with them.

They’d had small talk over her late husband’s possessions, her handing him a gold candle snuffer that he felt bad holding. He felt like he was being rude to a man he’d never meat by even being near Alice Clerbeaux. She was too kind, gentle, and sweet. Porthos thought himself too rough for her to associate with.

She was adorable when she was nervous. He wouldn’t have imagined he’d be able to read a situation as well as he had when he’d kissed her. How her husband had managed to resist kissing her before his death was beyond Porthos. Then again, he’d never been very big on self-discipline.


	45. The Challenge: Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's The Musketeers. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.
> 
> If only I would stop finding distractions that keep me from re-watching The Musketeers. I'm starting Musketeers Don't Die Easily as of today and am losing my shit because, while having a tumblr and knowing some of the spoilers, I wasn't expecting that much shit to smack me int he face in the first twenty minutes. Please pardon me while I freak out in a corner because I'm so behind and I can't flipping function.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

“How’d you raise the money?” Aramis growled as he tossed his purse into the pile, his eyes on d’Artagnan.

“Found a patron of my own,” the young man said. Athos gave a soft, pleased smile as he continued to watch them all set up their muskets.

“Wealthy widow?” Aramis questioned, seemingly irate that he’d managed to miss their young friend’s finding a patron without him.

“Not as far as I know,” d’Art said flippantly.

“When you’re ready,” Tréville stated.

* * *

Tréville wasn’t one to spy on the Cardinal. Not when he was aware that in doing so, he’d admit a weakness; a fear. He always feared the Cardinal’s reach. It went a little too far from what Tréville had been able to see. Tréville also knew the Cardinal for his schemes and ability to manipulate the odds in his favor.

As he’d watched his men compete, he found himself with a new fear. A fear for d’Artagnan who was so much like Alexandre it was nowhere near funny. The boy was also very much like his Three Terrors. The boy had Aramis’ skill with a musket, Porthos’ speed and quick judgment, and Athos’ ability with a blade. He was also young and vibrant; qualities Tréville expected to disappear if he remained too close to soldiers like Tréville and the Inseparables.

Though, Tréville couldn’t see it leaving because of battles and blood, he’d made the decision that the young man who was a true master of all skills was his best choice.

That was, however, before he’d learned the Cardinal had recruited Lebarge. He could see many promises being cut should he allow d’Artagnan to fight against Lebarge. He could see the child being taken away from them all and none of them ever recovering.

The loss of Radha had been hard enough. None of the men had been sure how to comfort the young boy they’d come to see as one of their own. None of them had been sure how to handle anything d’Art may have decided to do. The only consensus had been that they’d support d’Art in his decisions though, if the decision was to leave, they’d all be pained by the second loss.

Tréville knew it wasn’t fair to the boy but he changed his decision as Lebarge disappeared back into the Red Guard Barracks. He would not have d’Artagnan act as the Champion of the Musketeers. Not with his opponent being the man who’d caused him such pain.

* * *

“Lose something?” Constance asked, finding d’Artagnan rummaging through his drawer and bag.

Her concerns with her husband possibly jumping too far ahead of himself with a possible client evaporated from her thoughts as she watched d’Art move about. It pained her to see a wary glint in his eyes when he met her own but she’d reaped such a reaction.

She’d have to apologize for her words; explain them. D’Artagnan wasn’t a complete fool. He’d understand as long as she was truthful with him.

“Nothing important,” he mumbled. As he resorted his bags and his sword, he kept glancing towards her nervously. “I should go. Tréville said he’d be choosing his champion today.”

“Of course,” she murmured. “Good luck.”

He smiled at her, leaving in a whirl of clanking weapons and squeaking leather. She stood by his room door for a moment, contemplating how to handle this. Though, all she could think of was going after him. She couldn’t let him go without explaining things.

She couldn’t let him wonder if she were simply angry at him for accepting something that would get him what he wanted when that wasn’t it. She was jealous, fearing that Milady would win out over her. She knew how certain patronage worked; it wasn’t exactly a secret. She also knew men thanks to Bonacieux always grabbing at money.

All d’Art did though was smile at her, a small shake of his head.

“You put all other women in the shade, you shine so brightly in my eyes,” he whispered to her his hands holding hers to his chest. “I will win and everything will work out for us all.”

She smiled, pressing closer to him, not caring that they were in the streets. “You’re in high spirits today,” she whispered.

“I had some good news come my way,” he chuckled as he pressed a kiss to her lips. “I expect much the same today.”

“Well then, off with you. Go and claim your prize.”

They shared one last kiss, her hands cupping his face as he held her to his body by her hips. It was chaste in its length but left her burning at her cheeks and neck. She was a little jealous of any other woman who may have experienced such a kiss from him but, she had the strangest feeling that he had only given it to one woman.

And that woman was her.

The sheer joy of this knowledge had her floating as she went home. Home to find her husband standing in her kitchen as if his world were being destroyed before his eyes.

“Was your life so bad?” he asked, not looking at her. Her heart clenched. Her stomach whirled. “Was I cruel? Did I beat you?”

“You were never cruel,” she murmured. “And I wasn’t unhappy.”

That was true. She’d never been unhappy save for when he was gone or ignoring her outright. He, who was so adamant about gaining himself a name, a salary…All she really wanted was companionship with someone. Preferably, someone whose world revolved about making her happy as well as realizing their own dreams. Maybe, just maybe, she’d even earn a child so, should anything change, she’d always have a part of that person with her. Part of that person’s love for her and her life.

Bonacieux wouldn’t give that to her.

“At least, I didn’t know I was,” she stated, the understanding like a revelation.

“Until _d’Art_ came here?”

And Bonacieux made his name sound like it was poison to say. As if d’Artagnan were some sort of evil that had to be cleansed from the house. From the very soul. Like d’Artagnan had only arrived to make their unhappiness be noticeable.

Which, yes, he had brought it to the forefront of her mind but it wasn’t on purpose. All d’Art had done was be kind to her, been there when she needed a shoulder, taught her things she wouldn’t have had the opportunity to learn, and showed her that things weren’t so black and white as she’d thought. There were things a person could change. There were things a person could do to better themselves and their country.

She barely heard Bonacieux order her to break from d’Artagnan. Though, the command wasn’t received with kindness either.

“I’m sorry I’ve caused you _pain_ ,” she stated. “But I won’t give him up. I love him.”

Bonacieux rounded on her, his breathing erratic and eyes narrowed in rage that she’d seen before. Like a child throwing a tantrum.

“End your affair, or he’ll be dead within the week!”

“What are you going on about?”

“That new client I spoke of? It’s the Cardinal,” he hissed. “And he hates your _lover_ even more than I; believe me.”

“And why, in all sensibility, would the Cardinal kill him on _your_ say so?” she challenged.

She hated how she sounded; like a girl on the edge of tears. She couldn’t show Bonacieux that she was scared. She’d gained something with d’Artagnan and she couldn’t bear to lose it so soon.

“All I have to do is say I’ve overheard that vagabond scheming to overthrow the Cardinal himself,” Bonacieux stated, oblivious to what he’d just revealed to her.

He was spying to get this contract. He was being as deceitful as the Cardinal’s Red Guards all for a bit more _money_. He would risk a good name – or what little of a name he had – all for money.

“Your choice, my dear,” Bonacieux stated. “Break his heart so thoroughly that he’ll never look at you again. Make him hate you.”

He left her alone, brushing past her roughly as she cried by the hearth. She didn’t wish to lose the feelings she’d gained but…She couldn’t allow the man she loved to be killed because her husband had managed to worm his way into the graces of a powerful man.

And poor d’Artagnan had been so sure of continued good news. She hoped for him to win that competition. If nothing else, hopefully, his dreams would be realized despite this heartache she was going to give him.

* * *

“This is wrong,” Athos stated, his anger barely hidden behind his calm façade. “And dangerous.”

He was about to become a hypocrite but there was a truth to his words. It was dangerous for Tréville to engage in such stupidity. He hadn’t been in battle in years, his duties as a Captain leaving him with paperwork and feasts to oversee. While he was certain that that Tréville could still handle his weaponry with the skill of any captain, he couldn’t see him lasting an all-out competition.

The way Tréville’s eyes hadn’t been able to stay off the boy as he’d given his announcement had left Athos hopeful and proud. The look on d’Artagnan’s face when he’d left the yard after the announcement, however, had left Athos more than a little irate.

Aramis and Porthos had been crestfallen as well; thinking that the Captain was just being strange in wishing to not have to make a choice aloud. Even with the circumstances, the naming of a champion from the Regiment would have left a few men feeling like there was a bit of favoritism even when they likely knew better.

This, however….Athos had asked about before the announcement, taking in the gossip of the squads and bands with less salt than he usually would. Every man wanted to be the one chosen but they all agreed that the four most likely to gain the championship would be the Three Inseparables and d’Art. The other consensus was that d’Art was the ace out of the lot of them as well as younger; he’d last better in a fight.

“The challenge is my doing,” Tréville stated. “It’s my responsibility to see it through.”

Athos bristled though, as his training as a Comte had taught him, he didn’t show it past his voice as he leaned his knuckles against the desktop.

“Instead of having one more fill of glory, you should be giving d’Art his chance to win his commission from the King,” he hissed.

He’d almost tripped over d’Artagnan’s name; nearly given the whole of it. He couldn’t be sure if Tréville already knew but he could err on the side of caution. D’Art hated his name being given out without his personally doing it. Athos was sure there was a reason to it; like the reason d’Art had gone silent when near Lebarge.

Tréville gave a small snort. “You think this is about glory?”

“All I know,” Athos growled, “is that d’Art has it in him to be a _fine_ Musketeer. Perhaps, the _greatest_ of us _all_. But now, we’ll never know because _you_ have stolen his best chance to prove it.”

He left the captain then, huffing as he stomped down the steps to the yard. He sank onto the bench of their claimed table with a growl. He massaged his temple as he tried to think the situation through, noting he’d already put his foot in his mouth by allowing his heart to rule his head with how he’d handled Tréville.

He’d have to warn d’Art about that tendency. He couldn’t let the boy mirror him any more than he already did. It would be bad for everyone’s health.

Aramis had too many gray hairs as it was.

* * *

“Tréville’s taking the fight himself,” d’Artagnan muttered as he entered the kitchen in Bonacieux’s home in a bit of a whirlwind.

Constance was sitting there, staring at the fire as if lost in thought. He paused at the other side of the table, knowing he was probably being selfish. He couldn’t take his frustrations out on her; or anyone else for that matter. He’d have to deal with it on his own time.

“Suppose that puts an end to your daydream then.”

There was something in her voice that made his breathing want to hitch as his chest clenched at the words. Daydream? This wasn’t a daydream. This was something he’d wanted for a while now; even when he’d been too busy to be aware of it. She’d known this; for a while actually.

How could she say something like that?

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice strangely calm for the emotions raging in his stomach.

She rose from the chair in a huff.

“We were fooling ourselves,” she said. “There’s no future for us. Not together. I’m a respectable…married woman. This silly…flirtation has to end.”

“Flirtation?” he asked, a hand clenching the tails of his scarf. “I _love_ you.”

“And I don’t love you.”

He stared at her, not giving a damn anymore if his expression betrayed his feelings. Was this about Milady de Winter? No…Constance had explained that away. She’d been jealous. Well, she’d claimed she’d been jealous. Had that been a ruse?

“At least you have a rich mistress now,” she said. “Maybe _she_ can take care of you.”

He didn’t want Milady de Winter though. He wanted Constance.

“I can’t risk my future for you,” she stated. “No matter how tempted I was, and I was tempted I’ll admit that much. It doesn’t change things though and I won’t take the risk to my reputation or my person. I’ve far too much to lose.”

He couldn’t even look at her. Was what she was saying really what she was saying? Was there no second meaning besides the one he could intuit out of those words? Was she really more interested in money than…love? Was it really what was slamming into his face?

“I’m sure you’ve made the right decision,” he mumbled, forcing himself to not let anything past his voice betray what was really going on in his mind. “Thank you…for helping me see things clearly.”

Though there was no clarity from where he was standing.

But he’d leave her for it was her wish. It was only right of him.

* * *

D’Artagnan was the last of them to arrive but Athos wasn’t going to begrudge him of it. Not while Porthos and Aramis were arguing about Porthos’ patroness and the boy looked so distraught. Aramis hissed something foolish – as usual – which left Porthos being defensive – odd in Athos’ opinion – and d’Art…

“Never put your trust in love.”

_Where the hell had_ that _come from?_

Athos’ piqued interest – and fear for – the boy’s possible love life left Athos rather quickly though as Tréville’s opponent was called forward from the second tent.

“Some sort of sick joke,” Porthos snarled as his whole body twitched to step forward.

Athos agreed but there was the way Tréville was going about a routine that made him stop moving.

“Tréville doesn’t seem surprised,” he mumbled.

“He knew,” Aramis breathed out as they listened to the King and Richelieu talk about rehabilitation and further nonsense.

Athos’ eyes slid to look at d’Artagnan, inspecting how the boy’s scarf sat over the scar he knew to be there. It was as wide as the tie would allow, the boy’s earlobe catching the worn fabric as he shook his head in disbelief.

This wasn’t a sick joke to him. This was an offensive and twisted one. And there was nothing they could do about it. Not now.

Thankfully – though Athos wasn’t sure by how much now – the wrestling and shooting rounds were to be waved. He hadn’t seen Lebarge use a sword much. They’d been busy getting it out of his hands though; he remembered that much. He also knew Lebarge didn’t require a weapon to be dangerous.

As he watched, he found Lebarge to be a strangely perfect Red Guard. He liked force over strategy. He took cheap shots where and when he could – and would – find them. He was brutal and cruel. He was too perfect actually. It was as if he’d been bred for the job.

Athos could barely hear the shout of outrage from the King when Lebarge used his head to a rather literal extent over the swords clashing. He _did_ catch the Cardinal claiming he’d been unaware of any rules concerning this competition. Well, a competition set over a wager would likely have few rules to it. Though, Athos suspected there were the obligatory ones.

Porthos started smiling when Tréville managed a cut but the smiles of the crowd disappeared when Lebarge used the pommel of a sword as a blunt weapon. Things went a bit more violently after that, Tréville barely able to defend himself as Lebarge just charged him until he was weaponless and on the ground.

Lebarge broke Tréville’s shoulder with a ruthless stomp, all of the Musketeers bristling as their captain screamed.

“He’ll kill him,” d’Art hissed, drawing his sword. “Lebarge!”

“What’re you doing?!” Tréville cried from where he lay.

“Saving you!” d’Art yelled as Porthos and Aramis rushed past him to meet the wall of red coming their way.

Athos didn’t listen as the King and Cardinal bickered, trusting himself to be able to stop should a real command come their way. Instead, he concentrated on getting the Red Guards the hell away from Tréville and d’Artagnan.

“STOP!”

They halted, slinking back to their lines like a dog slunk to its master’s side after being called away from a wrong doing. Tréville was standing though it was a painful thing to watch. Aramis was already hovering, Athos like a guard dog as he stood next to Tréville. D’Artagnan glared towards the line of Red Guards.

“Your man broke the rules, Cardinal,” the King stated. “Captain Tréville may nominate another champion. Should he wish to, that is?”

Tréville held his injured arm to his side, his eyes shifting over them all until they landed on d’Artagnan. The boy’s eyes shone with an understanding of something in Tréville’s gaze that Athos had missed. He gave a nod, waving an arm in expectant invitation.

Athos’ heart clenched as Tréville glanced back him, Porthos, and Aramis. He wouldn’t dare. As little as Athos wanted d’Art to go against a man he hated with every part of his being, he didn’t want the boy to lose this chance. Not _again_.

“I nominate d’Artagnan.”

_Wait_ , Athos thought. _When did he get…that name?_ The expressions on Porthos and Aramis’ faces spoke as loudly as Athos’ rushing thoughts.

“Who the hell is that?” Lebarge guffawed.

“Me,” d’Art called.

The smile on Lebarge’s face got impossibly wider but Athos was stuck on the look of confusion running over the Cardinal’s face. Porthos glanced towards the boy, fear rushing over his eyes as he gave a silent question.

_When had he given his name to Tréville?_

Lebarge laughed as the King nodded his assent and returned to his seat.

“Mind holding these?” he whispered as he held out his scarf and chain to Aramis. The sharpshooter took them as if they were precious treasures.

“d’Art,” Athos whispered. “Don’t let your heart rule your head.”

“I won’t,” he promised.

“I’m gonna _enjoy_ this,” Lebarge called as d’Artagnan gave them a soft, knowing smile. He turned towards Lebarge, scarred neck on full display.

The reaction from Lebarge wasn’t missed. Not that it was possible when the man’s eyes looked like a platter one could only see in the palace.

“I doubt it,” d’Artagnan whispered just before he lunged.

Swords rang out again as the two charged each other, Lebarge managing to throw d’Artagnan to the ground for a moment. The boy fought him off, dancing up to his feet again. Lebarge attempted to shove him back down, forcing as much weight onto their blades as possible before d’Artagnan tossed him away.

“You’re that little shit,” Lebarge hissed, not aware of where he was standing. “You’re the little shit from that farm in Gascony.”

“Which one?” d’Art taunted. “I’m sure there were many farms in Gascony.”

Lebarge roared as he charged only to be beaten back again by d’Artagnan’s flashing sword and sure movements.

“The one with that full of himself owner,” Lebarge snarled. “I enjoyed listening to him burn.”

“Yes,” d’Art called. “Almost as much, I’m sure, as you enjoyed stealing a time piece from a little boy whose throat you slashed open like a fish.”

“That was enjoyable,” Lebarge snarled, his eyes darting to the scar. “So was getting rid of a little Irish girl who didn’t know to keep her nose out of things!”

“What am I hearing?” Porthos hissed, his hands clenched. Athos threw an arm up in front of his friend.

“It’s no longer our fight,” Athos responded. “It never was.”

D’Artagnan was smiling then. “Thank you for admitting it,” he cooed. “I’ll be sure to tell Radha her killer has been found.”

Lebarge gave another roar, rushing towards the boy with wide arching blows. D’Artagnan was too quick for him though, batting away the downward blows without opening his body to attack. Lebarge couldn’t close the distance to make a cheap shot and Athos could see his frustration on the man’s shoulders as they hunched towards the boy fighting him off.

There was a flurry of movement, Athos barely able to follow past the fact that d’Artagnan had spun around the man. He’d seen that move before in their training and while it was a risky one to use, d’Artagnan wasn’t slow enough for it to kill him when he was thinking straight.

D’Artagnan’s sword pushed out of Lebarge’s back, the man groaning as the boy held him up. A moment passed before the boy lowered the man’s body to the ground, backing away with heavy breathing.

“Bravo, d’Artagnan,” the King called. “The Musketeers have won though, since the rules were broken, the prize money is forfeit to the treasury.”

Athos smiled ruefully at the ground as he patted d’Artagnan on the shoulder before joining Aramis and Porthos in standing behind the boy with Tréville. The King stepped up to them, the Cardinal looking a bit put out behind him. They all bowed as was appropriate, though Athos suspected Tréville only bent his head.

“I admire loyalty,” the King stated. “More than any other virtue. Please…Kneel.”

There was a moment of hesitation, the boy’s head tilting just an inch to the side, before he took a knee, head lowered as the King touched his ceremonial sword to the boy’s shoulders.

“I hereby commission you into my Regiment of Musketeers,” the King stated, smiling as d’Artagnan gave a happy, breathy laugh. “May you serve it always with the same distinction I witnessed today.”

Aramis handed the brand new pauldron to Athos with a smile and Athos, as lieutenant, placed it on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. It took him a bit of restraint as d’Artagnan hugged Porthos and Aramis in his glee to only hold out his hand once the King had left. He wasn’t known to be tactile; not in public.

He’d make it up to the boy later though. That much he was sure of.


	46. The Challenge: Part 5

“So…are you going to marry the lovely widow…Alice?”

Porthos smiled, his eyes stinging. He didn’t mind the bitter sweetness of the parting he and Alice were having. She wanted to travel yes but he couldn’t quit being a soldier. It was too much a part of him now. She couldn’t be a soldier’s wife which, in all honesty, he didn’t want to subject her to such things either.

“Who’d look after you if I did that?” he asked, earning a chuckle and sympathetic pat on the back from Aramis.

His friend let him stare after her though. Porthos found it to be a kindness. A kindness he needed. It may have been short lived but it had been a deep feeling. He knew he’d likely never feel this way again but at least, he now knew he’d been able to feel it.

* * *

 

“I suppose you’ll live in the Garrison,” Constance said, her voice questioning as she stood from a chair.

She’d been a bit surprised when he’d come back, a pauldron on his shoulder and the scarf off of his neck. It wasn’t that she was unaware of the scar there. She wished she knew the story behind it instead of wondering what or who had given it to him.

She had also been a bit surprised he started packing his things. She knew her lies had been cruel but, she’d thought that the pauldron meant he’d gained his commission which meant he could pay his rent. Surely, she hadn’t been so cruel as to run him off?

Then again, it would be too painful to see him every day and force herself to not touch him. It would be truly cruel towards him as well.

“It’s home now,” he stated.

She nodded minutely.

“I hope you enjoy your _respectable_ life,” he added before leaving her.

She found herself standing by the window a moment later, watching him speak to that woman again. There was an idle wish to know what they were saying but a far larger part of her only spoke of the harm she’d been forced to do and that she’d lost him to a woman far more attractive in every sense of the word.

She’d never forgive her husband.

She wondered why he hadn’t put the scarf back on though, part of her interested in whether or not Milady knew of the scar. Maybe that would scare the woman away.

* * *

D’Artagnan found himself enveloped in Athos’ arms a moment after he’d reentered the Barracks. While unexpected, it was welcome.

“Well done,” Athos said in his usual, calm tone. “Though, I’m a bit surprised you decided to move to the Barracks instead of simply asking Tréville to help with your rent.” He shot d’Artagnan a pointed look.

D’Artagnan sighed. Trust the man whose wife wasn’t dead and trying to kill him to give that pointed look.

“Are you going to turn into a father figure now or an overprotective brother?” he mumbled as he played with the scarf in his hands.

He hadn’t had the heart to put it back on now that he’d killed the man behind the scar on his neck, the King ignoring it as he gave the commission, and the pauldron on his shoulder a comfort the scarf couldn’t give.

Not anymore.

“Well?” Athos pressed in a gentle manner, the arm he’d slung over d’Artagnan’s shoulder dragging them closer together. The harsh press of weapons between bodies was easy to ignore as Athos’ heat seeped past d’Artagnan’s jacket.

“I love her…She loves her husband,” he mumbled.

Athos closed his eyes, pressing his brow to d’Artagnan’s head. The corridor of the barracks was warm as they fell into companionable silence. There was an understanding that rushed through them both. Heartache was everywhere and came in many forms. It only mattered if it caused them to stop their lives. Athos’ life had been on hold a bit but there hadn’t been an all-out halt. D’Artagnan had a feeling that Athos would keep him from pausing.

“You warned Aramis away,” Athos sighed.

“Should have taken my own advice?” d’Artagnan chuckled.

“Maybe,” Athos sighed. “Though, it’s of little consequence to me.”

“Says you.”

“Exactly,” Athos smiled.

D’Artagnan nodded, the pack on his shoulder slipping away as Athos’ arm loosened its hold on his shoulders. He smiled his thanks as Athos led him into the Spartan chambers Tréville had assigned him only a few moments ago. He didn’t bother questioning how Athos knew the exact room Tréville had given out. It was likely one of the few rooms open on this particular block.

“Do Porthos and Aramis have plans for celebrating my gaining a commission?” d’Artagnan asked as Athos started storing his meager belongings.

“A few, actually,” Athos muttered as he glared at one of d’Artagnan’s shirts. “You’re going to need a few more of these. Trousers too.”

“Well, I have a commission now,” d’Artagnan said, scratching the back of his head.

“As well as one friend with too much money in his coffers,” Athos pointed out. “What?”

“‘What’ he asks as if the answer weren’t apparent,” d’Artagnan mumbled.

“Charles,” Athos groaned. “I’m asking to make up for the years I missed as well as ensuring the ones to come.”

“Why do I suddenly hear my mother telling me that it’ll be easier to do as she says rather than be dragged along?”

Athos smiled. “She was a wise woman.”

D’Artagnan laughed, shaking his head. “That’s rather low; even for a Musketeer.”

Athos smacked his shoulder in retaliation. It was a kind smack though there was a bit more force hiding behind Athos’ softened glare. D’Artagnan smiled to him, knowing it would be better to not say anything ill about their Regiment.

“What are their plans?” d’Artagnan sighed.

“Something to do with drinks and finding a woman to bed. No, I don’t think those two heard a damned thing you said prior to the fight.”

“Either that, or they’ve elected to ignore what I said.”

“Porthos, maybe. Aramis will wish to prove you wrong since he practically lives on the attentions of the fairer sex.”

D’Artagnan snorted. “How sweet of him.”

“Not really,” Athos muttered, turning towards d’Artagnan with a soft smile. “I’ve got something for you as well.”

“You?” d’Artagnan asked, his eyes widening as he stared at the man in amazement. “You got me a present…Already?”

Athos smiled, his nose wrinkling as he chuckled. He drew a small purse from the inner pocket of his jacket, something clinking within it.

“We were given access to the items in Lebarge’s possession,” Athos explained as he opened the purse and drew out a decorated cross.

“That’s…Radha’s,” d’Artagnan gasped, his hand shaking as he took the cross into his shaking hands. “He…kept it.”

“He kept something else,” Athos whispered, his hand held out with the palm up. D’Artagnan let his eyes drift to the shining item in it, sniffing as he recognized it.

“That…” he choked out. Athos smiled at him before he pulled him into a hug.

“Your father gave it to you,” Athos whispered. “I know.”

* * *

“They’re late,” Aramis groaned, sinking back in the chair he’d taken up in the small tavern.

It was one of the few that tried to cater to Musketeers. The Red Guards tended to avoid the place like it was cursed. There was a belief that this was due to the relative closeness to the Musketeers Regiment and Barracks. It was a few streets away in all actuality but those few streets were well known to the Musketeers as quick, backway passages to the other places in the city.

Porthos laid down a card on the table. It wasn’t a typical game he was playing, thanks to Aramis’ distracted state and the lack of other players, but it was keeping his mind occupied. He wanted nothing more than to just feel his pride for d’Artagnan but Athos’ lateness in fetching the boy was beginning to worry him. Athos wasn’t one to delay in much of anything he did. His punctuality was rarely impinged upon by his drinking or his other – unknown – personal issues.

D’Artagnan was the man’s favorite; memory issues aside. The boy’s commission had become their shared goal once Tréville had made the announcement. Athos’ inability to accept the idea had drifted away as the weeks went on. Porthos had watched him accept it, watched him begin to encourage the boy.

“Athos might be making sure he get his hug,” Porthos mumbled.

“That boy,” Aramis sighed, shaking his head. “Though, you can’t blame him when he still thinks Athos doesn’t believe us.”

“Maybe Athos is explaining it,” Porthos shrugged. “Maybe, d’Artagnan is ripping him into tiny shreds for making him think so little of himself.”

He tried to ignore how the fear that had been growling in his stomach began to shrink as he spoke. There was sweet truth there though. He was still rather annoyed at how bullheaded Athos had been being for the last few months. The way they’d all been toeing at the facts of d’Art’s history like scared children had driven him crazy.

Aramis was scarred of what Athos would think of them; questioning Athos’ past wasn’t something they did. Porthos had been scared that d’Art would run away from speaking about things Porthos wished to understand. Athos…Porthos wasn’t sure what Athos was scared of besides his own damned past – their time in his mansion had been rather enlightening.

“Well, that’d account for the tardiness,” Aramis grumbled as he took a drink from a passing waitress. “Though…if they don’t hurry, I’m going to have to start worrying.”

“As if you weren’t already,” Porthos smirked as he laid down another card.

“You winning?”

“No.”

“What are you even playing?”

“ _Reussite_ ,” Porthos mumbled. He decided to ignore Aramis’ giggles.

A few more minutes passed in silence, Porthos’ worry beginning to grow again. Aramis was beginning to bounce in his seat when Athos and d’Artagnan stumbled into the tavern, laughing about something. Porthos glanced at the two, finding himself missing the scarf that was nowhere to be seen.

He hated that scar.

“You’re _late_ ,” Aramis cried, leaping from his chair to pull d’Art into a hug.

“Apologies,” Athos sighed. “I had gifts for him.”

“Gifts?” Aramis laughed.

“One of which, he insisted we stop by the Court of Miracles to give to Charlotte and Flea,” Athos muttered.

Porthos lifted a brow in interest. “What would that be?” he asked.

“A cross Radha used to carry,” d’Artagnan explained.

“Radha wasn’t religious,” Porthos mumbled.

“Some ass tried to kill her,” d’Art waved off. “She didn’t appreciate it.”

Porthos sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m torn on how I should feel about Court news anymore.”

D’Artagnan gave him a soft, sympathetic smile. “Same.”

“You said gift _s_ ,” Aramis stated, emphasizing the ‘s’ at the end of the word until it sounded more like a ‘z’.  “What would the others be?”

“Other,” Athos corrected. “And Porthos, is to be the one to put it where it belongs.”

“Me?” Porthos coughed. “Why me?”

“Because you, dear brother mine,” d’Artagnan chuckled as he sank onto the bench Porthos was sitting on, wrapping an arm over his shoulders and presenting something in his palm, “got the chain to replace the original.”

Porthos glanced down to look at the simple, silver timepiece in d’Artagnan’s palm. He glanced up to Athos who smiled at him.

“The timepiece you were so worried about?” Porthos asked, picking the talisman from their youngest’s palm.

“The very same,” Athos stated as he took a seat. “Now, put it on the chain so we may drink to our youngest’s gaining his commission.”

Porthos smiled, tugging d’Art close in a hug. “Let’s drink,” he said.


	47. Knight Takes Queen: Part 1

“So…the riding came from learning with your father,” Aramis stated as they rode through the forest as Queen Anne’s guard, “as well as the two years you spent in Lupiac before you returned and helped us clear Athos of murder?”

D’Artagnan nodded, his eyes fixed on their surroundings. They were in the woods and, while Aramis had complete and utter faith in their abilities, he too understood the nervousness coming from their youngest. They were just barely outnumbered by the hand maidens and the Queen herself and Athos and Porthos were in the lead of this little procession.

The Queen had decided to take some time away from the stress of court while the King hosted a German banker. It was to be a quiet jaunt through the country and Aramis could simply imagine that they were likely to see no action at all. The Queen was going to relax and they were going to protect her. They might, if they were lucky, get a few bandits looking for money to steal.

“The shooting and grappling came from Porthos and I,” Aramis mused, ignoring how Athos’ head had turned to glare back them. “Where’d the swordsmanship come from though?”

“I was four,” d’Artagnan muttered. “My mother and father felt I should learn how to handle a sword and we happened to have a friend who started teaching me that spring.”

“By friend, you mean Athos, right?” Aramis asked.

“We’ve been going over this for weeks,” d’Artagnan mumbled. “How can you _still_ have questions?”

“Because you and Athos are _still_ being secretive,” Aramis stated. “You still haven’t told us about those two years back in Lupiac, or anything we may have missed while you were in Paris and we were on missions, and Athos still has yet to tell us about his time in le Fère. I’m not the only one with questions; I’m just willing to ask them.”

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan sighed, though a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “We’ll tell you two; when the time is right.”

Aramis frowned. “You and Athos _must_ be related by blood,” he grumbled. “You sound so much alike, it’s scary.”

“We’re not blood brothers,” d’Artagnan muttered. “Though, it would be nice if he and I were. It’d give him a better excuse to be so hypocritical.”

“I think he can hear us,” Aramis pointed out, nervously trying to wave the boy in silence. D’Artagnan just held his head high with a wide smile.

“Good.”

“You are a cruel child, you know that?”

* * *

“It’s too shiny, too new,” Athos muttered, following Porthos’ leading commentary on d’Artagnan’s new pauldron. The boy was rather protective of the damned thing, even during his practice to get his arm used to the limitations said pauldron inflicted.

“Like your mum dressed you,” Porthos agreed as he frowned at the boy who was panting where he stood.

“Precisely,” Athos stated, taking time to glance down to the lake where the Queen was swimming.

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan called, obviously trying to get an opinion that would likely match his feelings over the damned thing.

Where Athos and Porthos felt the pauldron needed a few nicks and scratches, Aramis had been imploring them to let d’Artagnan be the one to earn any blemishes the pauldron might gain.

_“It’s his pauldron,” Aramis had said. “It’s a mirror of his personality. He’s got plenty of unwanted blemishes as it is; why do you two wish to be the ones giving him new ones?”_

“What do you think?” d’Artagnan asked.

“We’ve landed in paradise,” Aramis stated, taking his eyes off the pistol he was cleaning. “That’s what I think.” He smiled at them, eyes lighting up as birdsong started to fill the air.

Athos rolled his eyes. “Stop whistling at the birds, Aramis.”

Porthos smirked, whistling to gain d’Artagnan’s attentions again before he swung his sword at the boy. It wouldn’t have been fair if he’d taken advantage of d’Art’s staring at Aramis like the Spaniard had lost his damned mind. Athos rejoined the effort, the two of them causing the boy to lose his footing.

“Stop it!” d’Artagnan yelled as they dragged him through the dirt.

“Much better,” Porthos chuckled. “Oh, come on, d’Art. It’s all in fun.”

“Right,” d’Artagnan grumbled as he clambered back to his feet. “You know, I’ve never liked being teased.”

Athos snorted. “Truer words,” he stated with a shake of his head.

“Be nice, Athos,” Porthos chuckled. “Who knows, maybe one day, he’ll land a hit on us after we’ve teased him.”

“Never gonna happen,” Athos stated.

“You two…” d’Art seethed though his voice was softer than Porthos knew it should have been if the boy were really angry with them.

“Yes?” Athos enquired.

“I hate you,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“Really now?” Porthos laughed, glancing towards the Queen and her handmaids just to be sure he wasn’t getting too distracted. Finding them to be perfectly fine, he turned his attentions back to d’Art. “Prove it.”

* * *

Tréville wasn’t exactly pleased with how weak his left arm was thanks to the treatment it had received from Lebarge but he was willing to shudder through it.

Count Mellendorf and his daughter Charlotte were pleasant enough people for Germans. He was a bit torn on that perception though as he listened to the King and Charlotte flirt at each other. He was understandably concerned thanks to at least one party being _married_ while the other was possibly looking. The best thing about the flirting was that he could barely hear whatever it was that Richelieu was speaking about with the girl’s father.

He’d caught the whispers of children and the word dowry though.

He simply hoped that the waters of the lake Queen Anne would finally bring them the child they all hoped for. Maybe, if Anne had a child, the King would finally stop being quite so childish. France required an heir indeed but even Tréville couldn’t see an heir being born from such a polar union.

No matter how politically advantageous the union was.

* * *

Milady de Winter wasn’t a fool. She knew how her patron tended to work. While she was pleased Richelieu was no longer blatantly holding his knowledge of her former marriage to Athos over her head, she was also aware that the Cardinal was a bit stupid. The man had asked for her to handle killing the Queen for god’s sake.

Oh, he was a brilliant, scheming snake but he was an idiot like most other men she’d met.

Kill the Queen? Make sure it doesn’t come back to him? Never mind the costs, just do it?

Had he forgotten? Had he truly forgotten that, like _every other time_ the Queen had gone to that particular lake, Tréville made sure to send her with _his best men_? Or, at least, the best men he had available? The worry of that had also just increased due to _those_ three having climbed their way through the ranks over the years but having no _other_ _mission_ to deal with as well as the addition of _d’Artagnan_?

Had the man forgotten what he’d witnessed a few weeks prior? Had the boy not _killed_ Lebarge, a man known for his cruelty and the requirement of at _least_ four men to knock him out? On his own? All because the King had said something while likely feeling too much wine?

Yes, she was aware of what was happening in the Palace. The King was meeting with a German banker who’d brought his unmarried daughter while the Queen was off to her lake in the hope of a miracle for her – perceived – barrenness. She’d rolled her eyes at the fearful sentiments of the people that Queen Anne was unable to bear children once news of no child running about the palace reached their ears.

Just because the girl wasn’t able to get pregnant as of that particular day didn’t mean she was barren. Arranged marriages weren’t seen as much more than political movements. The hope of children came later though it wasn’t usually born out of love. Love wasn’t really ever expected though; especially not at first. Like the possible children, it was expected to come later. Unlike the children, it wasn’t seen as necessary.

If Richelieu was so damned desperate though…

“Gallagher, I have a job for you.”

She gave him the orders she’d been given, knowing that the Irish gunman was better than Aramis in the use of pistols. She wasn’t sure about muskets but she didn’t care. Not for the purposes of this little mission. As far as she was concerned, all Gallagher had to do was complete her – and, by proxy, the Cardinal’s – request.

She left him to deal with it, knowing that any trouble the man would face would likely come from Athos and his two friends. She had a feeling d’Artagnan wouldn’t help either but, seeing as he was new to combat, Athos would likely send him as a messenger. Athos had shown a strange rash of protectiveness over the boy; he wouldn’t allow d’Artagnan to die so soon after earning that commission.

Her hand drifted to her neck, fingers clutching at the choker she used to hide her scar. She hadn’t expected the scar on d’Artagnan’s neck. Though, it had explained a few things. She had almost appreciated the sight of the long mark when she’d spoken to him outside the cloth merchant’s house. It was a defining thing but he hadn’t let it be. Unlike her and her scar.

Maybe, just maybe, she was wrong about the boy being a weak point?

* * *

“Leave the birds alone.”

“I hate these damned birds!”

“So much for paradise,” Porthos muttered to d’Artagnan as a thundering crack filled the air.

“Aramis!”

“Wasn’t me.”

Porthos blinked, missing half a beat as d’Artagnan leapt to his feet, Athos right behind him. D’Artagnan took a shorter route down the rocky embankment, Athos not far behind him once they spotted the white robe the Queen had been wearing. Porthos clambered down the ramped end of the embankment, rushing his feet along to get there faster even if he wasn’t sure he was saving any time. The woman was likely dead. And he didn’t dare think of her as the Queen until he was told otherwise.

“Caroline?”

He jerked to a stop, catching the relieved surprise on Athos’ face before he rushed to her side. Athos was yelling about getting her into cover while he’d already started moving towards the Queen. He took the Queen into his arms, hurrying her away from the little tent, aware that d’Artagnan was behind him.

They ducked down when Aramis yelled at them to, trusting the Spaniard to know if they were running low on the time it took a man to reload a long barreled musket. Porthos hunkered down over the Queen, the woman looking tiny as she curled under him. D’Artagnan was at his feet, lying on his back while Athos and Aramis pressed against the hills.

“Get her to the horses,” Athos growled. “Aramis, you and I will handle the assassin.”

Chips of rock broke free of the hill as the air thundered. Athos and Aramis broke off, d’Artagnan sliding down to have a better view of the surroundings.

“d’Artagnan?” Porthos asked.

“Move!” the boy yelled, swinging around the curve like a fire was nipping at him.

He took the Queen’s hand, slowing as he helped her up. They were in a rush sure but they had to ensure that the woman wasn’t harmed while they rushed her to safety. They scrambled up the embankment, Porthos mildly wondering if the other girls were going to be alright on their own as he watched d’Artagnan guide the Queen.

_The Queen’s the target_ , Porthos reasoned. _Those girls know how to keep their seats. They’ll be fine._

The air cracked again.

“That’s not good,” d’Artagnan hissed.

“What’s not?” the Queen asked, her hair catching on her soft features as she whirled her head around to look for their invisible attackers.

“Too many people shooting,” d’Artagnan stated. “With one round to a musket, the assassin brought friends.”

“Horses,” Porthos growled. “Now, boy.”

“Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan hissed, tugging her hand.

“Haste,” she breathed with a shaky nod. “Yes.”

* * *

They’d seated the Queen with Aramis while they’d stampeded into the trees, Athos and Aramis only causing her Majesty’s face to become pallid. The assassin wasn’t alone; he’d brought a whole company of men. While it wasn’t exactly easy to lose that many men, Athos had a feeling that they could pull it off if they were smart about it.

He’d been a bit taken aback when their youngest had snatched a spyglass from Aramis’ hand and clambered up a tree to see where their pursuers were. It wasn’t the brazen way the boy had done it. It was just that he’d forgotten how skilled at climbing d’Artagnan was having not really seen him do it since Therron and even that hadn’t been at the right angle.

“They still following?”

“Yes,” the boy called down. “Not tiring either.”

“Determined,” Aramis grumbled.

“What if we don’t lose them?” the Queen asked nervously.

“We’ve been in worse situations, your Majesty,” Athos stated.

“And we always prevail,” Aramis assured her. “This is a relatively quiet day for us, to be honest.”

Athos’ attentions were pulled away from the two as d’Artagnan landed on the ground, the spyglass in his belts.

“Time to go,” the boy said, striding towards his horse.

Athos nodded, about to turn on his heel when d’Art caught his arm.

“Aramis didn’t really just say that, did he?” the boy asked.

Athos sighed.

“Damn,” d’Artagnan muttered. “Just…perfect.”

“Indeed.”

They continued riding like that for a while, skirting the tree lines whenever they found a clearing. D’Artagnan kept his hand on the spyglass, never allowing Aramis to return it to his possession. He acted as their lookout as they skirted about the forest.

“They’ve not been in sight for an hour now,” d’Artagnan announced at one point.

“Good,” Athos sighed. “We’ll be safe for a while yet…The Queen needs to rest as well.”

“Keep Aramis away from her,” d’Artagnan whispered to him.

 Athos paused, glancing to d’Artagnan as if he were confused, hoping the boy couldn’t read him as well as he usually could.

“It’s no secret,” d’Artagnan whispered. “I know he carries a rosary from her Majesty and I’ve seen how he looks at her. As well as how she looks at him.”

Athos lifted a brow. “The Queen is married and has no eye for any man past her husband.”

“A husband she was arranged to marry,” d’Artagnan pointed out. “A husband who, in all honesty, doesn’t really rule his country and has been known to say things in her presence without realizing such words harm her emotionally.”

Athos sighed. The boy was right. There were few secrets of Court that remained secret to men in their situation. The issue of Savoy was a clear example as well as the issue with Ninon. The issues of the King’s Court weren’t always secret to his soldiers. Not with such a childish king who was being led about by the Church and his personal Regiment’s captain.

“Aramis isn’t that stupid,” Athos whispered, hope growing in his chest.

“Says a friend of Aramis’ to another friend of Aramis’ while both men know Aramis’ tendency to leave a woman’s rooms through her window,” d’Artagnan mumbled as he shook his head.

“d’Art,” Athos pleaded. “Don’t do anything. Aramis will be my responsibility.”

“You have enough weight on your shoulders, Athos.”

“And I can bear another,” Athos smiled.

“You’re sure?”

“I am,” Athos whispered.

* * *

The Queen truly was a vision in the simple dress and cloak. Aramis was almost thankful that he’d decided to go fishing. Well, he was until the angel that had fallen from heaven came up to him enquiring if she could help. He was in his smallclothes with no shirt and those were not only white but slowly getting soaked from the cold river water.

“Rest while you can, Your Majesty,” he said. “We’ll soon be riding again.”

“I’d like to be useful,” she insisted, stepping closer to the river and the pile of fish he’d managed to catch. He’d have to deter her somehow.

“Can you gut a fish?” he asked.

He tried to not smile too widely when one of the fish twitched its tail in its effort to return to the water, causing her to stare at him nervously.

“Porthos is preparing a fire,” he suggested. “I’m sure he’d appreciate some help collecting sticks.”

She smiled, nodding with an enthusiastic gleam in her eyes. “I’m sure can even cook a little,” she said sweetly.

He smiled back. _Athos is going to kill me_ , he thought as he returned to his fetching of fish.

The fire was wonderfully warm, the fish smelling at least somewhat edible despite being burned to a crisp.

Of course, Aramis being what he was – a right arse when it came down to it – complimented the cooking while Porthos looked like he was willing himself to just chew the fish until it was a tasteless mush he could stomach to swallow. Athos looked rather green while he claimed it hard to believe that this was her first time cooking – by her _own_ admission! Aramis smiled wryly as Athos claimed to be full when offered another fish, not quite missing how d’Artagnan dumped as much of his small plate as he could before the Queen returned her attentions to him.

“Shh,” Athos hissed, a hand raised as a soft thumping caught his attention. “d’Artagnan.”

“Your Majesty,” the boy sighed as he rose to his feet.

“Tired of running away,” Porthos growled.

“We should give chase,” Aramis suggested as d’Artagnan led the Queen to the horses.

“The Queen’s safety takes priority,” Athos reasoned. “We can’t risk it by taking a stand.”

Porthos halted him with a rough hand on Athos’ chest. “We can’t outride them either.”

“When we can’t then, and only then, will we fight,” Athos hissed. “Mount up.”

* * *

The small convent had been a surprise but a welcome one.

Athos’ suggestion for Porthos and d’Artagnan to ride to Paris and get reinforcements while he and Aramis took the Queen to hide in the convent, however, wasn’t. There were at least a dozen men after them and he and Porthos would likely only return by morning at the earliest.

“Don’t worry,” Porthos said. “Athos will keep Aramis out of trouble and the Queen is a virtuous woman if ever there was one.”

“I hope you’re right.”


	48. Knight Takes Queen: Part 2

“Anyone is allowed in at any time of night or day!”

“We’re Musketeers of the King,” Athos ground out in a polite manner that Aramis knew a little too well.

“I answer to a higher power than you,” the girl hissed back. Aramis rolled his eyes as he continued to untack the horses.

“This is your Queen,” Athos hissed. “It’s your duty to protect her.”

“Close the gates Sister!” If that wasn’t the voice of a Mother Superior, then Aramis’ time under his father’s tutelage had been wasted.

He hurried up the wall of the convent, his extra spyglass helping him watch as men topped the hill they’d separated from d’Artagnan and Porthos on. He chewed his lip as he watch two men begin to make their way down the hill and towards the convent.

“Athos!”

Athos joined him in silence, watching as the two men waved a makeshift, white flag at them.

“Talk or shoot?”

* * *

The mercenary wasn’t one to be trifled with; Athos was sure. The man had been a soldier. All of his men had been what with how they held themselves in line and used the white flag to garner a talk.

Not that the talk did anything to calm Athos’ raging emotions. The continued threat to the Queen as well as the women behind the wooden gate left him angry, yes, but he’d remained calculating. It was his duty to protect the Queen however he could. His blood had gone cold at the threat on Porthos and d’Artagnan’s lives though.

The man’s willingness to shoot his own was…disconcerting to say the least. The promise – not a threat, a promise – that anyone remaining behind the convent walls being killed rang in his ears as he watched the man ride away.

“Aramis! It’s going to be a fight.”

* * *

“Ain’t this better than trying to escape?”

“Ask me again in two minutes.”

Porthos smiled as he reloaded his pistol. The two men they’d already shot lay behind them while their two remaining friends were cantering towards them. Porthos raised the weapon, shooting with a confidence he’d gained over the years. His man fell and he watched d’Artagnan struggle with his pistol. He twitched, ready to leap in front of the moving horse if the boy didn’t hurry up, but sagged with relief when the last rider sagged from his saddle, dead.

“Well, that was pathetic of me,” d’Artagnan muttered as he stared at his pistol, his hands shaking from possible frustration.

“Take it easy,” Porthos said, knowing the frustration was coming from slight panic.

The boy hadn’t been in gun fights like that before – as far as he knew – and even he understood the fear that came with facing down men on horseback while standing on the ground. It likely also hadn’t helped that they’d all told the boy this was a relatively boring jaunt that never saw any excitement past whatever they managed to give themselves. Separating from Athos, Aramis, and the Queen was probably only adding fuel to the fire.

The young man and Athos had been rather busy catching up with each other since Lebarge’s death. There had been a noted increase of soft smirks coming from Athos and less drinking as well. D’Artagnan seemed to be more willing to mill about with young recruits as well as old veterans without having one of them around now too.

Everyone at the Regiment seemed to be taking d’Artagnan in but, there was the strange understanding that the boy was one of _them_ , one of the Inseparables that surrounded the men. Half the reason they were even on this stupid mission was because Tréville had been sure that the boy not only could handle a mission like this but _deserved_ an easy mission.

“What’s that?”

Porthos cocked his head, kneeling down to look at the man’s wrist where d’Artagnan was pointing. It was a tattoo of a hand.

“Nothing I’ve seen before,” he admitted as he rooted about in the man’s pockets until he found a slip of paper. “Promissory note…to cashed out at a money lender in Paris.”

D’Artagnan glared.

“ _Really_?”

* * *

Aramis wasn’t all that surprised that the still in the basement. He was surprised at the girl though. Surprised he’d apparently caused his former fiancé to change her name and go into a convent while she continued using his father’s recipe for distilling.

Thank God for Athos needing him.

“…I’ll take the other room,” Athos said, Aramis barely hearing him. “Do say if you’re not happy.”

“No, no. I’m as happy as any man in our situation can be.”

“Mother Superior is praying for our souls next door; if that’s a comfort.”

Aramis decided it would be wiser to keep his mouth shut. Anything he could possibly say would likely be taken as a crass joke. Plus, it would get Athos to leave him alone faster and being alone would be better than Athos staring at him with those knowing looks.

Until, of course, Queen Anne came by to give him more powder as well as questions. He gave her the truth, knowing it to be best that she continue to have proof he wasn’t worthy of her. First his stupidity during Vadim’s near kidnapping of her, then the thing with the rosary and Ninon, and now…this.

“I think they’re about to-!” Athos cried, bursting into the room with a huffing whirl of energy, the window blasting apart from a shot. “…Attack.”

“Go with Athos,” he whispered, pushing the Queen towards his friend.

“Your Majesty,” Athos invited. “Go into the chapel.”

* * *

If Tréville hadn’t been alright sending his entire Regiment out with the King for the hunt with the German banker and his daughter before, he certainly wasn’t when he found Porthos and d’Artagnan standing in his training yard without their two friends or the Queen. It took all of his self-control to not automatically start cursing when all his questions were being answered by pained sighs from Porthos and worried glances from d’Artagnan.

Informing the Cardinal wasn’t something he wished to do but it was procedure. The Cardinal, as the man of his station that he was, deserved to know. Even if the man seemed to take the news of the Queen currently being safe as a terrifying thought. He’d already sent word to the King as well, asking for his Musketeers to return with all haste.

“Can your men hold their position that long?”

“As long as those two breathe, they will do what they must to ensure the Queen’s safety,” Tréville stated, not appreciating how little faith Richelieu had in his men despite seeing them in action many times before.

At least the man promised to punish those responsible once they’d caught them.

* * *

“Why didn’t you?!” Athos bellowed through the chapel. “Become a priest, I mean?”

“I found I was better at dispatching people to hell!”

The nuns were praying as shots rang about their little chapel, glass shattering around them. Athos didn’t see them holding their vows of peace for much longer though. He was already made aware of the flammable liquid in the basement thanks to the Mother Superior as well as her girl Helene. Besides, this was their home. They wouldn’t let anything happen to it if they got protective enough.

“MOTHER OF GOD!”

He smiled. That was all it apparently took.

He could just see them through the window when he was firing at their assailants, throwing the bottles of alcohol with flaming rags and cutting any hooks free from their walls. It was actually quite entertaining to watch a few of the men go running off after one of their fellows who’d gotten himself lit of fire or watching the men run from the angered beehives the nuns had thrown down at them.

He almost wished he’d let d’Artagnan and Porthos remain with them though. The two extra shooters would have been helpful but, an entire Regiment would be better. The Nuns were doing well enough with what little they had in the way of weapons. He could see them holding this place for a couple days. If they absolutely had to.

 _Be quick you two_ , he thought.

* * *

“Unusual for a money lender to leave his rooms unattended,” Tréville stated as he entered the small office, Porthos on his heels.

“Trusting type?” Porthos asked as d’Artagnan rounded the door.

“Very trusting apparently,” he sighed as he closed the door to show off the body hanging from it.

Tréville sighed. “Try to find the record book.”

Porthos nodded, stepping into the office to look through the shelves. Tréville set into the desk.

“Do either of you smell jasmine?” d’Artagnan asked as he stepped across the hall, following the scent. He knew this scent, he was sure of it.

“Found it!” Tréville called. “Porthos! D’Artagnan!”

D’Artagnan turned, heeding his captain’s calls. Especially as he listened to the proof the ledger gave. Mellendorf, the banker had paid in gold and apparently sent the Irish version of the Musketeers after the Queen. He turned away, his frustration mounting as Porthos urged they get to the convent. He paused, the reflection of a dress catching his attentions.

“What is it?” Porthos called as he followed d’Artagnan outside again, both of them brandishing their pistols.

“There was someone there,” d’Artagnan insisted. “I smelled her scent.”

“Her?”

“What men do you know that wear jasmine?”

“There’s no time to search for her,” Tréville called. “The Queen is our priority. And I have to tell the Cardinal to send the men after us once they return.”

* * *

Aramis didn’t take the silence of their attackers very well. Helene – he was already used to the new name for some reason – may be a hopeful woman what with her thinking prayer had sent the men running. It wasn’t prayer that had sent those men rushing away from the steep grade of the convent. It had been the firing of musket balls, a fear of buzzing insects, falling to a doom when a rope was cut, and fear of falling flames.

As a soldier, he knew these men were likely reconvening to find a better form of attack, seeing as the original attempt hadn’t gone as well as they’d hoped.

Though, the distraction was somewhat welcome – he had questions for her thanks to her disappearing act. The answers, while likely born out of her having really only seen her side of things and being somewhat blind to his feelings, stung. It had been her choice, not her father’s decision, to leave? He wasn’t meant to marry? She couldn’t see him being happy with children about his feet while living in the country?

He could though. He’d seen a glimpse of it when he’d impregnated Helene. He’d gotten a second glimpse when he’d met Agnès. Yes, he’d been a fool then – getting a girl he’d originally only meant to be a distraction from his father pregnant – but he was a fool now. Even more so actually since his affections had decided to pin themselves to a woman who was not only married but was so far beyond his worth it wasn’t even funny.

Not to mention, the scared looks d’Art kept shooting his way whenever Queen Anne became involved hurt. The boy knew him too well; could see nothing but ill coming from an affair with the Queen. Aramis saw nothing but ill coming from his desires too.

“I acted out of kindness.”

Kindness? No. This wasn’t kindness.

If he’d married her, child lost or not, he would likely have never strayed from his home. He’d not have picked up the sword. He wouldn’t be a Musketeer. He wouldn’t have set eyes on the Queen. It didn’t really matter if he craved excitement either. He knew he could find that anywhere.

Then again, if she’d married him, she wouldn’t be dead in his arms.

* * *

“Think this’ll work?” d’Artagnan asked as he stared at Serge, One-Eyed Florian, and the stable boy. Tréville, resorting to the only thing they had going for them, had ordered the three to dress in Musketeer uniforms and saddle horses.

“All they’ll see is the uniform,” Tréville assured. “Don’t know what they’ll do to the enemy but…they frighten the hell out of me.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes, ignoring Porthos and Serge talk about guns and such while he fixed the Captain with a cool stare.

“I won’t stop you,” he stated, “but can you ride with that shoulder?”

“Boy, if you weren’t so damned popular, I’d whip you,” Tréville grumbled.

“Sure you would, Captain. Sure you would.”

* * *

Anne wished peace upon herself, the nuns, Athos, and Aramis. The latter especially. It seemed that his usual vibrancy had diminished. It hadn’t been the situation of being in danger that had done it. No, it was the death of someone he’d known, lost, and found again.

While Athos and the nuns went about securing the openings of the underground tunnels, Aramis was left to his own devices. As was she but she hadn’t thought Athos’ posting Aramis to her door, just in case, would result in her watching him mourn a former lover.

Past the walls, she could hear the pounding of hammers or stones against something. The pounding wasn’t helping her thoughts either. All she could think of was how sad Aramis looked as well as every other expression he’d ever shown her.

The hurt of her accusations on his relationship with Ninon that, in hindsight, had stemmed from her own frustration at Louis for being too open with his enchantment of the day. The fearful awe when he’d kept her safe on Easter Sunday. The sweet smiles that he’d given before pressing his lips to the cross she’d given him.

She wanted the sad expression to leave, finding it abhorrent and wrong.

“What’re they building?” she called from her seat at the edge of the bed.

It was her attempt at feeling out the waters before making too heady a decision she could take back. A curious question at the pounding that was probably expected from a woman in her position.

“A battering ram or a ladder, likely.”

And if his voice wasn’t the definition of a defeated man, she didn’t know what was.

“I too was pregnant,” she murmured. “A few weeks after I’d married.”

She glanced towards him, watching a light shine in his eyes as a smile tugged at his lips.

“It was perfect and I’d had everything planned and imagined. But…I lost the baby.”

He stared at her, his eyes brimming with a strange sort of respect she’d have never found from Louis. When Louis had learned of her miscarriage he’d bemoaned his luck, cried to the Cardinal for guidance, and mumbled things she was both meant and not meant to hear for weeks. It had gotten less…blatant over the six years since but she’d found it to still be there. Louis was too easily fascinated with other women, specifically ones who were claimed to be baby making machines. Ninon was proof that he was a child when it came to understanding a woman’s wishes despite being married to her; the woman renowned as a patient angel.

Maybe, like the angels, she wasn’t built to conceive. It was either that or become bitter in return and call Louis a dry well.

“I’ve not forgotten that child in six years,” she murmured, watching him shift nervously on the bench. “That is why I doubt Sister Helene forgot you or your baby.”

He stood, stepping towards her door in a slow manner. As if he were unsure he should have moved at all.

“I thought Isabelle was the only woman who would have been able to make me happy,” he said. “She was right though. I lied to myself, to her, to our families. It was a lie.”

“That is your grief speaking,” she murmured.

“She was right to stay away from me.”

“Aramis,” she said, standing and stepping into his personal space so she may have her hands on his chest so he knows she isn’t lying when she speaks. “You are brave, strong, and kind. Any woman would be fortunate to be loved by you.”

As soon as the words are out, she knows two things; she has finally admitted what it is she feels for this man and he…feels the same. It’s a beautiful sight to see, a man in love and gauging if he should or should not let into temptation when the object of his affection is standing before him.

She can’t say she’s seen it on Louis’ face before. Well, no, she’s seen the emotion of desire and lusting as well as confused awe on Louis’ face. He loves her, sure, but not like this. Where Louis is confused as to what to do in any situation and always nervous that he’ll run her off if he’s not careful with the words he’s consciously tossing to her, Aramis is only uncertain in whether he should dare to lean forward.

So, she makes the decision for him.


	49. Knight Takes Queen: Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short.

“About what you saw-,” Aramis began but Athos doesn’t want to hear it.

“I didn’t see anything. I’ve been in _here_ all morning and so, I can’t have _possibly_ seen anything. You understand?”

“The walls are too thick,” Aramis stated, trying to return to the previous topic of how their attackers were probably trying to tunnel in. “The Garrison will be here by then-.”

“I cannot _believe_ you slept with the _Queen_!” Athos hissed.

It wouldn’t do if the sisters in the chapel heard him. Aramis’ lacking his doublet and jacket when he’d walked past them meant little. It had been a long night, the convent was a bit warm due to the season, and they’d been in their clothes for _days_. The sisters wouldn’t object. Mother Superior had even insisted that he could try taking a bath until he’d pointed out he’d prefer to not impinge any vows they may have taken nor would he like trying to face gunmen in only his skin.

Shedding layers would be perfectly acceptable as long as a few stayed on.

“Thought you didn’t see anything?”

“They’ll hang you…And then myself for letting it happen.”

“Well, we’re likely to die here and take it to the grave,” Aramis offered.

“Comforting,” Athos stated.

“You good now?”

“…Yes.”

“Good…I’m going to my post now.”

“Smart choice.”

_D’Artagnan is going to kill us both_ , Athos thought.

Mother Superior was a welcomed change of pace, showing him – once again – to never underestimate a woman’s wrath. It was her convent indeed. Though, to be fair, he wished she could load a pistol a bit more quickly than the saying of a prayer but that was beside the point. At least with her, the most issues he’d have would be where she was pointing the muzzle.

His guess that the men outside had been tunneling had been correct though and he found himself escorting her majesty into the cellar. All while trying to forget the image of her clothed only in sheets while sprawled over Aramis’ chest.

At least he had his hands full with the line of men coming his way.

* * *

“Did you get him?”

“Athos, _please_.”

“Last shot,” Athos reminded him, waving the pistol in his hand.

“If I ever complain about an assignment being boring again…”

“I’ll punch you, making you wish I’d kicked you.”

“I was going to simply ask you remind me of this but…that works too.”

“Remind you of this? Why the hell would I do that?”

Aramis winced. He had a point. If he was reminded of this last shot moment, he’d likely remember the night just before it as well. That would only invite a different sort of…

“MUSKETEERS!”

Aramis and Athos held each other’s gaze until the shooting stopped, Aramis keenly aware that Porthos’ voice was in the middle of the cacophony.

“Athos! Aramis!”

“In here Captain!”

“Everyone alive?” Tréville asked, bowing to the Queen.

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Aramis chuckled.

“Athos?” d’Artagnan asked. Of course it was d’Artagnan who’d ask that.

“That way,” Aramis pointed.

They found Athos standing by an injured Gallagher a few tunnels down, the Mother Superior stating last rites were in order before shooing them out with the man’s weapons. The debrief of what had been learned by Tréville, Porthos, and d’Artagnan continued to feel more and more wrong as they spoke though. The fact that Athos knew the signature a simple flower implied as well as the implications that followed the flower made Aramis’ stomach churn.

A woman who worked for the Cardinal? D’Artagnan swearing he’d seen a woman at the money lender’s office? There were no coincidences in this. There couldn’t be. They wouldn’t be able to pin anything on the Cardinal though. Not until they had trapped the bastard with evidence that couldn’t be challenged.

Aramis tried to ignore how the Queen sent them all a knowing look, her eyes betraying _exactly_ what she thought of the Cardinal’s claims. They all clapped, knowing it best to go along with whatever the King had decided to be truth.

“That’s it?”

“It’s not over, yet,” Athos whispered. “Go on, Aramis.”


	50. Musketeers Don't Die Easily: Part 1

“Stay awake, stay awake,” Porthos whispered, the market place before the Musketeer Garrison filled with soft gasps and fearful crying.

Athos would have never been happier to be drunk in his life but, for this, he’d had to remain to only one cup. He hadn’t dared go over that, fearing that he’d do something wrong and the whole thing with blow up in his face. Porthos had even made him promise to not overdo it, eyes harsh and unrelenting with confusing emotions. They’d all promised each other that Vadim was to be the _last time_.

Yet, there he stood, pretending he was drunk while he watched Porthos, Tréville, and Aramis hover about d’Artagnan, the young man unconscious from the shot _Athos_ had let off into his side.

_Stay on your feet_ , he thought as he watched them try to bring the young man around. _Stay on your feet or this will have been for nothing._

He watched the scene continue before him, Aramis moving towards him to yell words that were beginning to hold too much truth to them to be comfortable. This hadn’t been the idea; he knew that. He was only supposed to hit the boy’s arm. Not his side. He couldn’t even blame the boy for it seeing as his finger had been on the trigger when the boy had charged in as he was supposed to.

He let his mind filter away the noise, his eyes focusing on his murderous wife and d’Artagnan. He didn’t dare look at Aramis, Tréville, or Porthos because if he did, he’d find himself thinking about what conversations the boy had been having with them before this. What jokes had they been making? What stories were they telling? What activities had they been taking part in?

It was odd to think about it as he watched her slip towards the boy, screaming at Tréville to release him to her. Part of him had wanted to wince when Aramis had started the lines, the hammy sound of his voice just a bit too difficult for Athos to buy. Porthos sold it better, his actions what Athos would have expected on any other day; loyal to his friends and nervous when they were fighting.

D’Artagnan though…Dear lord the boy should have been on a stage for the King and Queen. They’d not rehearsed this but it came from him so easily. Athos could barely believe they’d even planned this out thanks to d’Artagnan. The boy kept his eyes locked on Athos, save for the one quick glance to Aramis, his face wrecked with fear. Fear for the woman, fear for his friends, fear for Athos, and fear of Athos.

The last matter was what had chilled Athos. There wasn’t any easy way for a person to fake fearing another. At least, as far as Athos was concerned there wasn’t. He’d rarely been afraid of other people in all his life. In awe of; maybe but it depended on the second parties involved. Slightly intimidated by; every so often, though it took some effort by the other party. Confused by, concerned for, and generally ambivalent over; every damned day.

Being scared of another person? He’d never felt that. Despite everything that he’d agonized over when he’d denied who d’Artagnan was he’d never been all out scared of what his acceptance would bring to him.

The look on d’Artagnan’s face when he’d begged for him to release that woman, to believe in him, to stop…The only thing that topped it was the expression on the boy’s face as the gun went off and he stumbled backwards.

_Stay standing_ , he thought as he watched that woman drag their youngest away. _Stay on your feet. Stay on your feet._

“They’re gone,” Porthos hissed though Athos could barely hear him over a roar in his stomach. Porthos’ hand was on his shoulder, a tone of urgency knocking at Athos’ ears as he and Aramis dragged Athos away.

Before he knew it, he was inside the Garrison, the men yelling to know what had happened for the shot had been, as most shots are known to be, noticeable. Tréville’s voice echoed in his head for a moment before Porthos and Aramis dragged at his arms again. The world blurred as his companions shoved him into moving until he found himself standing in a room in the Barracks. More specifically, d’Artagnan’s room.

He knew because the scarf lay over the pillows, where it now belonged when the boy was out

“He has a chamber pot in here, yes?” Athos mumbled.

“Yeah,” Porthos sighed as he leaned against the door, Aramis panting against the wall.

Athos nodded, eyes seeking out the pot in question. It only took him a moment to find it, thankfully and staggered towards it.

“Athos?” Aramis asked. “You alright?”

“…No,” he mumbled right before he fell to his knees and emptied his stomach into the pot.

* * *

D’Artagnan kept his breathing slow and deep as he pulled his shirt back on. Broken ribs weren’t easy to deal with on any given day. Having broken ribs from a gunshot made things a bit more difficult to deal with thanks to the _gaping hole_ left behind.

The damned clicking of a lever being pulled back didn’t help.

“If you brought me here, just to shoot me, you’ve wasted your time,” he grumbled.

“I have a question for you, dear boy,” she cooed.

“Then ask away,” he huffed, returning his attentions to his clothes, requiring something to occupy his hands. Unlike the last time he’d faced her, he’d been high on a win. Now…Now he wished for his scarf more than anything else. Not his sword, not his dagger, not his pistols, not even his pauldron. He wanted the scarf Aramis had given him. Nothing else. Just that.

Well, maybe a hug from his brothers too but in lieu of that, he wanted the scarf.

“Can I trust you?”                           

He tried very hard to not drop his hands from the lacings of his shirt front. It’d pull at his side. Snorting would shake his ribs incorrectly too.

“Did I not just stop _your husband_ from killing you?” he asked, turning his head just slightly so he could glimpse her through the corner of his eye without stressing his ribs.

The gun clicked, the warming barrel leaving the back of his head. She rounded him, eyes calculating, especially when they fell on his scar. He had a dim memory of her eyes going wide for a moment when she’d first seen it in her carriage after he’d won his commission. He knew she likely hadn’t seen it the first time they’d met or even during the nonsense with Vadim.

Her hand skimmed over the injury to his side, light enough to tickle. It was enough to send a burst of pain through him.

“It grazed your ribs, dear child,” she whispered. “A few inches over…and Athos would have killed you.”

“It was an accident,” he muttered.

“Oh really?” she cooed in that voice. That sick, sweet voice that had hidden her intentions so well before but now made his mouth go dry. “You saw his face when he learned of us. He _hated_ you.”

Her words were partially true. He’d seen Athos’ face when he’d learned of her being his patroness and apparent stalker. The admission had been given in confidence sometime after the mess with the Queen and Gallagher. A simple misstep in some respects since it had been Athos drunkenly describing his wife and d’Artagnan mumbling that he’d met a woman who’d fit the description a little too well. The following morning had been rather interesting with them sharing notes while actively sober.

There hadn’t been hate but fear. Fear for his safety because, apparently, this woman was far more dangerous than he could have imagined. He’d known she wasn’t likely to be trustworthy but…She’d _killed_ Athos’ _brother_ and had tried not once, but twice, to kill Athos since.

“All of your…so-called friends did,” she muttered.

_Then why is my cheek stinging like someone tried to get me to wake up_ , he wondered. _Surely,_ you’re _not a mother hen?_

“They left you to die in that square, dragging Athos behind them like he was the victim,” she hissed, her voice suddenly not so sweet anymore.

“And the explanation on you not informing me you were married when you were with a man in a shoddy little inn or when you shot two Red Guards?”

She shot a glare at him.

“Never came up as I recall,” she stated.

“And when you gave me the thirty livre?”

She smiled. “Sweet boy, surely you know that it’s not just widows or single Ladies who give away their money? Married women do it too; especially when they’re no longer interested in their husbands.”

_Says the woman who’s hell bent on getting revenge on her husband_ , he thought.

“The Cardinal is my patron as well as my protector,” she explained. “He could be yours too.”

He smirked at the idea. “I hate the Cardinal.”

“Don’t be a child!”

He blinked, watching her snarling face slowly pull itself back to the impassive, cool expression he’d always seen her wearing. He was beginning to miss the coy smiles now that he’d seen what really hid behind them.

“There’s not future for you as a Musketeer,” she said. “Not now that those three, who hold far more sway than their dear Captain, dislike you. Cut your losses.”

“I don’t believe that,” he said.

She pressed her hands to his cheeks, pulling herself up to meet his lips. He leaned away before she could make the kiss too deep.

“Last time we kissed you nearly framed me for murder.”

“I promise I’ve done no killing…today.”

“Then explain to me what happened between you and Athos,” he muttered, gripping her wrists when she leaned away from him. He stared down at her, managing to not smile when he saw a fearful light in her eyes.

“Everything. Now.”

“…Alright.”

Her story was sweet, simple, and tinged with a bitterness that he knew only a talented few would have been able to hide or fake. The scar on her neck was a bit compelling too though, he knew his was more concerning. She’d been hung but he’d bled. A little line of red at the base of her neck did little to impress him.

Her wish for him didn’t impress either.

“You wish for me to kill Athos?”

“He’ll never forgive you,” she insisted. “He’d sooner kill you than do that.”

“I’ll not kill my friends.”

He was saved from too much further discussion when Tréville knocked at the door, asking for him. He steeled himself, knowing that this was necessary, that it was planned and that the King and Queen were likely aware of it all. Well, the Queen maybe. Yet, this commission had been hard won and to have Tréville, his father’s friend, say it was no longer his hurt. Like he was being forgotten about all over again. Like Athos was openly denying claims that he’d been wrong all over again.

There was a point to Tréville’s words though. Athos was the finest in the Regiment and if anyone were to be lost it would likely always be the newcomer. No matter the circumstance. Even if the finest soldier had made a drunken display and nearly killed a woman in public, the Regiment would find a way to protect him. D’Artagnan had when he hadn’t even been commissioned.

He had a job to do though and he was going to do it despite the pain in his chest.

“Be in the town square in midday. You’ll get what you want.”

* * *

“She’s upset,” Porthos mumbled as he and Aramis watched Constance walk away.

“She loves him.”

“Well then, she shouldn’t have told him she didn’t,” Porthos grumbled. “Not so soon after they’d started being honest about their flipping feelings, especially.”

“That was a bit unfair of her, wasn’t it?”

“More than a bit.”

“Porthos.”

“It was!”

They took up their usual table, already sure they’d be exempt from training that day in lieu of the circumstances. It took them a while to slip into a different subject from d’Artagnan’s failing love life but they managed it.

They weren’t able to miss how some of the men glanced at the boy all askance when he wandered back.

“Here we go,” Porthos whispered just below the clanging of weapons.

He leapt to his feet, repeating the basic lines he’d been given by Athos. There had been nearly drilled into his head, this opening. They had to seem untrusting of the boy and it had to sell. It was the opposite of what they’d done with Vadim but he couldn’t help but notice how easily the men followed their leads in either situation.

With Vadim, they’d expected unpopularity. They’d never been known to leave a man behind unless the battle required it. The nearly automatic acceptance that it had been an act had been a bit of a surprise but Porthos had imagined the girls having something to do with it.

This time was scary.

The men all stopped what they were doing, lining up behind him and Aramis. None of the men had been made fully aware of what had happened in the square the night prior. All they knew was it had been revealed that Athos’ wife was not only back from the dad but she was a murderer. D’Artagnan’s possible relationship – though Porthos saw that at being played up from what he could see and had been told – had been brought up too.

That was when Porthos had realized the men looking a little rabid.

_“We trusted him.”_

_“Sleeping with Athos’ wife?”_

_“How can we be sure he didn’t know?”_

This all coming from men Porthos had seen cry at Radha’s funeral, giving d’Artagnan sympathy and their condolences. Men who’d _carried_ the damned coffin.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked.

“In bed.”

“Not alone, I’d imagine,” Aramis stated. “How’s Madame de Chappell? Or, was it Milady de Winter? I’ve lost track.”

Porthos could have strangled Aramis then for bringing up that new name. Sure, it had come from Constance but he couldn’t remember d’Artagnan bringing it up. The boy’s rolling eyes kept his mouth shut though. The lack of surprise had him biting his tongue.

“Well, last time I saw her though no thanks to her _loving_ husband,” the boy drawled back.

“Risen from the grave too, I see!” Athos yelled, exiting the stable where he’d been holed up for the better part of the morning sobering up and sharpening his sword.

“If, by that you mean your failing to kill me?” d’Artagnan growled.

“Lad, what are you doing here?”

And Tréville had appeared just in time for the fireworks to begin.

“I’m still a Musketeer despite what this man,” d’Artagnan snarled, pointing towards Athos in the most dismissive way Porthos had ever seen, “wishes.”

“My offices, now!” Tréville yelled. “We’ll settle this in private.”

They disappeared into the office then, leaving Porthos and Aramis to dispel the wandering horde of men. Porthos tried to keep his breathing as calm and as natural as possible while he waved the men off before joining Aramis and his friends in the Captain’s offices.

If Tréville ever offered them up another undercover themed mission, he’d punch him.


	51. Musketeers Don't Die Easily: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finished the first season. I'm going to have this be only for the first season; a sequel possibly showing up when I have finished the next semester of school.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

“Not dead.”

“You’re not drunk.”

Tréville watched the surreal image before him; his four best men standing before him and glaring daggers at each other before splitting into laughter and falling into a group hug. The frivolity didn’t last long though, Athos’ arm hitting the wound on d’Artagnan’s side.

“You were _supposed_ to shoot me in the arm, Athos,” d’Artagnan complained though Tréville suspected it to be somewhat halfhearted.

“A shot to the side is far more authentic,” Athos sassed back in his deadpan way.

It took some self-restraint for Tréville to not throw something at the man, knowing full well what that shot to the side had left him doing for half the night. The looks of pure fear running over those three’s faces while Aramis and Porthos calmed Athos with words and held his hair away from his neck when gagged into the chamber pot were not about to leave his memory anytime soon. At least, not until this was all over.

“You didn’t aim there purposefully then?” Aramis chuckled.

“I was drunk,” Athos muttered though Tréville had the feeling it was a lie. The chamber pot hadn’t reeked of wine to suggest such a claim.

“Accuracy wasn’t my aim,” Athos continued.

“Least it was genuine,” Porthos chuckled.

Tréville reeled them in then, knowing that as much as they’d needed this sweet comradery, they still had to fool the woman. D’Artagnan gave his assurance he was one chore away from getting Milady to believe him abandoned. Athos, being the bravest of them, asked what it might be.

“I have to kill you,” d’Art sighed, adding a small smile of apology at the end.

“Well,” Tréville muttered. “Long as it’s _simple_.”

“Is it me, or does the Captain seem a bit _eager_ to have Athos dead?” Porthos asked, not even bothering to lower his voice.

“If the closest thing I have to a godson has to get shot, he has every right to kill the man who shot him,” Tréville ground out. “Now, are we going to plan this or not?”

* * *

Athos stood with Aramis and Porthos in the square, waiting for their youngest to follow through on the plan. They hadn’t needed to wait long thanks to the boy always being punctual for a mission. They had had enough time for Athos to get a little buzz from the wine though.

The plan was, as Tréville put it, simple. They’d laid a perfect ground work what with his shooting d’Artagnan the night before – he mentally shoved his stomach’s reaction aside in his usual stubborn way – as well as the play that Tréville was being ‘forced’ into lifting d’Artagnan’s commission – forced being a bit too strong a word within the context of Tréville’s lines. All that d’Artagnan had to do was play the slighted comrade which, Athos noted with a bit of bitterness in his mouth, was what he tended to play period.

He’d played it with Vadim. He’d shown it while dealing with Bonnaire and Marsac. There had always been this slight undercurrent to their missions that d’Artagnan, as their youngest and newest member, was given the grunt tasks and teased for being an apprentice.

This most recent ruse however, was making Athos nervous about the loyalties of the other Musketeers. At least, the ones present for this idiocy. Tréville had sent some of the men off on missions within the last week and Aramis had been quick to point out that the majority of them were men who’d hissed vengeance for Radha. Porthos, skeptic that he was, had denounced the idea but Athos knew the truth in the words.

This ruse was surrounded by men who’d not been in the midst of the Vadim plot as well as fairly clear in their objections to another street kid joining up. Athos had very clear memories of when Porthos had clawed out these men’s respect and yet he knew it was flimsily based on how Porthos and Aramis were a set. No one wanted to annoy Aramis when they had knowledge of his skill with a musket as well as a sword.

He couldn’t imagine a harder situation to put d’Artagnan in besides this one. The boy would have had to work hard to prove to some – most – of the Regiment he wasn’t just good for pickpocketing information without this ruse blocking him out for god only knew how long.

The lines passed with more speed than Athos had expected, the boy’s acting once again dragging him along like the pull of the tides. Just like the night before, he was moving before he was aware, his body clear on what he was supposed to do and going through the motions.

He’d been enraged before so that was a simple matter of shoving and snarling. He wouldn’t claim he’d ever been stupid enough to hang rules on a duel so quickly though, it did feel somewhat natural to just pull and shoot without really aiming.

It was all fast, like a typical fight. D’Artagnan shot his pistol, filled with only powder and no round and Athos did his best impression of a dead man to date. He hadn’t expected it to be difficult to fall in a deliberate manner would be so fucking difficult though, he did his best to pull from the experience of being shot into unconsciousness.

“He’s dead!” he heard Porthos shout as he tried really hard to stay still and not react to the prior spreading of dark pig’s blood over his doublet.

“Murderer!” Aramis screamed. “Come back her, you coward!”

_D’Artagnan a coward_ , Athos mused as he focused on keeping his face as blank as possible. _Bullshit if I’ve ever heard it._

The square had gone strangely quiet since Aramis’ shouts, Athos able to hear one man – he assumed Aramis – moving to kneel at his side. Maybe a woman had run off, ready to spread gossip but there really wasn’t anything else to hear. Porthos’ hands were on his stomach and shoulder and Athos risked taking a breath while simultaneously attempting to not give away anything. Not as easy as he’d hoped. He’d never been aware that if his chest didn’t rise, his shoulders or center did to allow for his lungs to expand before.

_Come on,_ he thought. _Let’s get me moved. Come on._

It took him a while to realize his wishes were being met despite Aramis and Porthos struggling to lift him onto a cart, a sheet tickling Athos’ nose. A few rattling and jarring minutes passed as he breathed as freely as he dared, Porthos’ mumbling they were nearing the Garrison making his chest seize.

“Hope d’Art’s alright,” Aramis whispered.

“Same,” Porthos mumbled.

_So do I_ , Athos thought as he squeezed his eyes to combat the stinging there.

* * *

She’d expected something different to fill her chest. She could claim she felt empty about what she’d witnessed despite it being what she’d wanted for so long. It wasn’t though. Milady knew that much, even as she spoke the words to the young man before her.

While she suspected he might feel something closer to emptiness as he spoke of a reprisal from Aramis and Porthos, she barely heard the plea for help past the growing emotion in her chest. The boy was being practical, as expected, even if she read it wrong thanks to what dark thoughts were swirling in her mind. Thoughts that urged her to try kissing him once more to see if it would take away this feeling.

“There’s someone else, isn’t there?” she asked when he didn’t respond.

“I have just killed a man,” he stated. “Tends to dampen my moods.”

She wished she could claim this hadn’t affected her as much as it had. On any other kill, she’d have been able to press herself to the boy and never let up. This time though…She turned the subject as quickly as she could.

“It’s that draper’s wife,” she mumbled, sorrow replacing that emotion in her chest by a bit. She found it easier to breathe. As did her knowledge that she’d likely have this boy trapped no matter what he might say next.

He didn’t speak though, his eyes cold like winter itself. That sorrow disappeared, that emotion back in her chest and making it hard to breathe let alone think. Flight was the best response to that expression.

“Come,” she sighed, attempting to keep the hurt in her voice so he’d continue to give her that same care as he handed out to everyone he bothered speaking to. “The Cardinal will be expecting us.”

An understatement but that was becoming par for the course as of the last three months. Since the issue with Gallagher, the Cardinal had been far easier than usual to set off with a blithe comment. She hadn’t dared inform him that it was partially his fault. He’d asked for it on such short notice and then had reacted badly when his lacking memory came back to bite him.

Though, if she were honest, she too had hoped that the four men guarding the Queen would have been a bit lax thanks to the dull mission.

She’d have to admit the boy was quick on his feet though as his knife dug into her skin when threatened with the noose. Really, did the Cardinal ever fucking _think_ his new plans out anymore? If he did, then he must have lost some self-respect seeing as it made him seem like he could care less about his best spy.

She was a bit intrigued by the whole letter thing though. Avoiding suppressing the evidence was believable and his referencing the men’s ‘code of honor’ as the basis for his little plan lent credence to his offer. Yes, Porthos and Aramis would be ‘honor bound’ – she could have snorted at the idea – to demand the young man’s blood. Vengeance was something of a running theme for most men she’d met; those three being some of the worst offenders.

It was all perfect and all she could hope for. She’d wanted nothing more than for this boy to become hers since she’d seen him in that inn and he’d refused her. It was like she’d found the perfect version of Athos. A man who would defend her against everything whilst also being bent to her whims.

Yet, there was still the pesky problem of some of this feeling too good and too easy. Thank god for her back up plans.

* * *

Constance hadn’t exactly expected to hear that d’Artagnan had been shot that morning, let alone have herself to called to the young man’s aid after he’d  _shot_ Athos back. She certainly hadn’t planned on being held hostage either though so she suspected she was on a bit of a roll.

Céline was…worse than Athos when it came to drink. Sarazin wasn’t an idiot though he seemed to expect a bit too much from the girl. He also seemed to expect her to be a simple hostage; a cowering mess of tears and pleas.

“I’m not frightened of you.”

He smiled at her, calling her ‘unusually brave for a woman’. She invited him to remove the ropes on her wrists, promising to show him _exactly_ what she could do to him.

“I’m going to enjoy killing you in a few hours,” he stated as if discussing the weather.

He left her alone with Céline who proved incapable of holding her wine. It was a good thing too since it made it easier to smash the bottle to bits. She’d have liked a blade but since this could be what d’Artagnan would have considered a ‘pinch’ the glass would have to do.

And, good lord if the girl weren’t stupid enough to get drunk, she was certainly stupid enough to wear the key to the door around her neck. She made it to the door rather easily though she’d been hopeful that it would be free of people. Specifically, Milady and her fist.

_Well, baby steps Constance. Baby steps._

* * *

Porthos was having a hard time not noticing Charlotte hiding in the trees as Tréville – attempted – to give a eulogy for Athos.

They had been busy shoving other Musketeers into walls and giving warning that d’Artagnan was _their_ responsibility. No one else was getting the so-called honor to bring Athos’ soul justice. Besides, the two of them had been the ones to train d’Artagnan and were the only ones who knew _exactly_ what he was capable of.

He and Aramis weren’t helping the matter though, what with their inputs to improve upon the speech. Aramis went a bit too far while throwing out the word ‘handsome’ though, Porthos enjoyed the look of sheer confusion that crossed the girl’s dirty face.

He’d not expected anyone in the Court to show up for this. Maybe he should have since the whole plan revolved around shooting d’Artagnan at the very least. While he appreciated the sentiment – sort of – he could have done without the funeral entirely.

Far too emotional.

He wasn’t especially good at the emotional junk that came along with the loss – fake or otherwise – of a friend.

He almost expected questions from the girl once the funeral was over and she stepped up to them as they parted from the crowd. None came though and Porthos wasn’t really sure if this was a good or bad thing. If Flea was aware of what was going on and had sent Charlotte – who wanted nothing to do with the Musketeers for understandable reasons – things might not be going quite as they planned.

“There’s a man who wishes to speak with you two about finding the one who shot your friend dead in the square,” she stated airily.

“How mad is Flea?” Porthos blurted.

“Royally pissed.”

“Lead the way,” Aramis sighed.

The tavern she led them to, wasn’t all that special past being out of the way in terms of location. Charlotte paused in front of the small building, holding a hand up at it in invitation for them to go on without her.

“Oh, by the way,” she hissed, catching Porthos’ arm. “Flea says to tell you that, if this shit keeps up, she wants d’Art back where it’s safe.”

“Flea already knows?” Porthos winced, incredibly relieved that he and Aramis were nowhere near another Musketeer or anyone who may have witnessed the ‘death’ of Athos.

“Yep,” Charlotte whispered. “Doesn’t help that your man practically grabbed me out of a crowd to fetch you either.”

“I’ll kill him correctly,” Aramis promised her. “If this kind of thing continues, I’ll kill him properly.”

“You better,” she huffed. “Good luck.”

She disappeared into the crowd then, leaving them staring after her like idiots.

“Should have known Flea’d keep her eye on the boy,” Porthos sighed.

“Yes but…we can’t worry about that right now,” Aramis muttered, leading the way into the tavern. “We have things to do.”

Porthos found he’d been right to assume to the tavern was like any other he’d ever entered. Sticky tables, unstable chairs, and the rank scent of ale hanging in the air all surrounding at least one suspicious looking character.

“How was my funeral?” Athos asked.

“Very nice things were said,” Aramis murmured. “Though, warn us about the urchin messengers next time, yes?”

“Sorry,” Athos muttered. “Saw her and thought she’d be the best to relay where I was.”

“Thought this didn’t look like the place we agreed on earlier,” Porthos mumbled.

“Thought it best to be out of the city proper…Any news from d’Art?”

“None yet but it might still be early,” Aramis whispered as the door slammed, a ruffled and peeved looking Bonacieux standing there.

“Not far enough apparently,” Porthos huffed.

“Where is she?!” Bonacieux snarled at them. “Is he hiding her somewhere? I know what men like you are like!”

“What _are_ you going on about?” Porthos snarled, his internal hatred for this lowly man climbing its way up from his chest to his tongue.

Bonacieux had never struck Porthos as someone who knew how to treasure things he had. The continued idiocy he showed when dealing with Constance as well as d’Artagnan had only served fuel to the fire. If Bonacieux had been a bit more attentive and less of a callous idiot, maybe, Constance and d’Art wouldn’t have hit it off so damned well.

“My wife left my house and has not returned,” the man huffed. “If she’s eloped the _wretch_ d’Artagnan…I’ll challenge him! I have no choice!”

Aramis rose to his feet, a placating hand up while Porthos sat in wonder that Athos hadn’t already left his seat. Porthos found it was difficult to not leap up and slug the man for calling two of his friends something they weren’t. D’Artagnan may love Constance but he’d left her house because she’d claimed she didn’t love him. Constance wasn’t the kind of woman who’d run off either; even if it were for love.

“Calm down monsieur,” Aramis said. “Explain what’s happened; slowly.”

“I already have!” Bonacieux yelled. “She left and didn’t return! Respectable women don’t just disappear in broad daylight!”

“She’s not with d’Artagnan; I promise you that,” Aramis stated, his tone lowering in a dangerous manner. There was a clear warning there; one that Porthos didn’t see the man taking. “We’ll deal with it, once we’ve finished here.”

Bonacieux muttered and left in a huff, Aramis sinking back into his seat.

“I’m beginning to think that boy is cursed,” Aramis mumbled.

“Careful what you say,” Porthos warned. “You might make him so.”

“If she’s been missing all night, which, from the sound of Bonacieux’s voice she has been,” Aramis muttered, “she’s likely in danger.”

“d’Artagnan can’t know,” Athos sighed. “Not now.”

Aramis opened his mouth only to shut it when Athos fixed him with one of his famous stares.

“I note that he loves her but that fact only makes this more imperative,” he explained. “One lapse in concentration and he could get killed.”

Porthos smacked his hat against Aramis’ shoulder. “See what you just did?”

Aramis sighed, shaking his head as the door squeaked once again. This time, it was a messenger.

“Here we go,” Athos whispered.


	52. Musketeers Don't Die Easily: Part 3

D’Artagnan tried really hard to not laugh as he watched Porthos and Aramis pass the letter back and forth while speaking to the Cardinal. It’d aggravate his ribs and wreck his cover. Besides, the two were being rather poignant with their jabbing words. Though, the look that crossed Aramis’ face as the Cardinal claimed his actions were due to the Queen’s apparent barrenness was a little too difficult for him to miss.

_You idiot_ , d’Artagnan thought as he forced himself to hold his gaze.

He was supposed to be angry for being caught after being – somewhat – forced into a duel. He wasn’t supposed to be angry that one of his best friends was such a colossal fucking idiot he wished to strangle the man.

He smiled as the Cardinal opened the ‘letter’. The distraction was welcomed. He just wished he could have seen the man’s face when the Queen herself turned the corner, announcing her presence. The letter falling to the ground sure was a nice touch, though.

He didn’t fully understand her decision to spare the man but he was willing to follow it. The man, while a scheming snake, was obviously protective of his country. He was willing to commit treason for it.

D’Artagnan had done that before though Bonnaire had had his sentence coming to him. The Cardinal was loved by the King? Fine. If the Queen wished to keep the King’s favorite minister to allow that man happiness then fine.

Besides, he needed to not look Aramis in the face while the Queen spoke of sparing a man Aramis would – obviously – rather kill in a slow manner in her honor.

Her warning was stated and she left in a calm sort of silence. They all joked about how easy they would forgive the ‘murder’ of Athos before demanding Milady as repayment. D’Artagnan avoided Aramis’ eyes as they left, wishing the man would take his hand off his shoulder.

* * *

“d’Art? There’s been some news,” Aramis had mumbled.

Porthos had made sure to remain as close to d’Artagnan as he could as they’d entered the training yard. Other Musketeers sent them all confused looks, some even fingering the hilts of their swords. That would have to be dealt with soon. Preferably once the act was done with and the goals had been met. Though, if they had to tell everyone sooner, he would.

Porthos had sympathized as far as he dared while Aramis broke the dam and threw d’Artagnan the steaming pile of shit the boy didn’t need. Yes, they’d gotten the Cardinal’s confession. Yes, the Queen had sternly warned him to never fuck up again. But they didn’t have Milady yet.

The result had been anticlimactic though. D’Artagnan didn’t react at all really. It was all him and Aramis trying to get d’Artagnan to _say something_ about it and to no real avail past getting glared at. They were rescued by Tréville, announcing that Milady was on her way to the rendezvous point set by the Cardinal.

And Athos was better at revealing himself than the Queen. He didn’t need any grand announcement before the woman looked at him, turning in a stony realization that she’d spoken too soon.

“We’re both prone to resurrection,” Athos stated casually, like this was an everyday occurrence for him. He gazed at his former wife. “Was it sweet, your revenge?”

“For a moment,” she mumbled, though Porthos thought it sounded weak. He shook his head. No, a woman like her had to heart to feel with. His ears were trying to trick him.

“Though, you might not want to shoot me,” she stated once Athos had pulled his gun to stop her from leaving. “If you do, you’ll never see Constance Bonacieux again.”

Porthos knew his eyes weren’t the only pair snapping to d’Artagnan in that moment. Athos kept his eyes on his witch of a wife but he’d thrown an arm up in the attempt to stop their youngest should he step forward.

He didn’t.

He turned and stormed to his horse, mounting it in silence.

She stated her own rendezvous and guidelines to it, her eyes wide and her voice shaking just the slightest bit, before she left them.

“Ambush?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Undoubtedly,” Athos sighed. “You’re taking this rather well.”

“Constance knows how to shoot,” d’Artagnan muttered as he turned his horse.

“Come now,” Aramis chided. “She may have been tricked into coming for you!”

“If she cared so much, she should have said so,” d’Artagnan hissed. “I’m tired of being jerked around by people; women especially.”

“Still wish to save her though,” Athos chuckled.

D’Artagnan didn’t respond with more than a huffing sigh.

“Come on then,” Athos chuckled. “Let’s go help the good Madame Bonacieux.”

* * *

Constance wasn’t exactly sure of what happened while Milady had been away. She only knew the woman was possibly flustered, something likely not going her way.

Her confusion mounted as she was lead to an alley and held at gunpoint, waiting for the four Musketeers to come rescue her. While irked that she had been relegated to the poor damsel in distress role once again, a small part of her hoped they wouldn’t come; that _he_ wouldn’t come.

She remembered a two horse carriage just before the shots started. After that, everything turned into a blur of powder smoke, flying dirt, shouts of pain, the breaking of wood, and booming cracks as guns went off or grenades blew. The booming cracks changed to the sound of metal against metal and flesh, Athos’ voice filtering to her ears once more before she saw d’Artagnan walking towards her, a pistol lifted. Sarazin jerked away from her then, his arm bleeding.

“Run!”

She moved, instinct telling her to find a spot to hide until the swordplay was over. She’d forgotten about Milady though, finding herself once again staring at the woman she hated with every fiber of her being. The gun pointed at her would have been less frightening if not for the fact that _that woman_ was holding it. Anything would have been better than staring at this person. The clanging of swords and grunting of men fighting was almost like a lullaby for her until it…stopped.

Milady jerked her around, holding the pistol to her head, and waited as the four rounded the corner like ghosts rising from the smoke.

Her eyes fell on d’Artagnan, her heart pounding so loudly she couldn’t hear what Athos and the woman were saying to each other. She took an opportunity to smack the pistol away, relief flooding her as Athos ripped Milady’s arm from her. She rushed to d’Aratagnan’s open arms, crying against him as he held her.

“I didn’t mean it,” she cried. “Any of it! I’m so sorry.”

“Hush, I know,” he whispered as he held her to him, his head shifting so he could watch. She too turned to watch, her breath hitching as Milady ripped the choker from neck to reveal a scar.

Her eyes drifted to d’Artagnan’s neck, following the scar there as she listened to Milady tell Athos to finish what he’d started and to do a better job of it this time. Her breathing halted when he sparred her, warning her to never return to Paris or he’d kill her.

“I’m glad you saved her,” d’Artagnan whispered. Athos smiled, a locket slipping from his fingers to the ground.

“I was saving myself.”

Aramis and Porthos smiled.

“Come on Constance,” d’Artagnan whispered. “I’ll take you home.”

“Might be a dangerous task,” Aramis warned.

“I can handle it,” he said as he pulled her along.

For a moment afterwards, she was blissful again. She had her knight and his attentions, his hand around hers. He’d even kissed her brow sweetly and like she were the only one before him.

But, like all other things prior, it didn’t last.

“What have you done?” she whimpered at Bonacieux once she skidded to a stop in the kitchen, staring at his arm that sat in a sling. One of the maids stood behind her, d’Artagnan following them both in silence and with deliberate steps.

“I…I thought you’d abandoned me and…couldn’t live with it so…I tried to…” the man whimpered to her as she knelt at his side. He kissed her hands, claiming love and warning her he would put his ‘worthless life’ on her conscience should she ever leave.

The door clicked shut behind the sounds of boots walking away. Her head jerked slowly to stare at the place she’d last seen d’Artagnan, finding it empty of his presence, the maid tearing up as she gazed towards the door.

She bowed her head, tears falling into her dirtied skirts.

“I love you,” she whispered, though it was aimed at no one within the walls of Bonacieux’s house.

* * *

D’Artagnan returned to them within the hour, head bowed and a hand rubbing at his temple. Aramis had been about to ask what was wrong when Tréville burst into the courtyard, demanding they get into their ceremonial cloaks and head to the palace. Athos delayed it further by yanking the boy away from him, muttering about clean cloths and having to treat d’Artagnan like he was a ten year old.

The palace was humming, as usual, with gossips and the twittering members of the King’s Court. He was placed on the Queen’s left with Porthos on his right and Athos on his left. D’Artagnan had been steered to stand at Athos’ left while Tréville took his place at the King’s right.

The placement wasn’t missed by himself or Porthos. They both stared at the arrangement in slight astonishment. They were somewhat used to Athos standing at Tréville’s right for it had been that way for years now.

D’Artagnan, while an impressive young man – and fully cleared while they’d dealt with retrieving Constance – and obviously well trusted by them, Athos, and Tréville, Aramis couldn’t say he’d expected the boy to be one person away from the King within his first three months of being commissioned.

The joking about ‘d’Artagnan the Musketeer Apprentice’ they’d been sharing only a day before suddenly felt in poor taste.

The Cardinal entered, the King’s words not sitting well over the man’s countenance. The vagueness of the call had been…well, vague. Those words made his heart bloom for a moment though. Maybe the Queen had changed her decision on the Cardinal?

“The Queen is with child,” the King then announced and Aramis couldn’t help but notice how cold his cheeks felt then.

He glanced towards Athos in a bout of panic, understanding full well that the timeline made a little too much sense to _not_ fit with a _certain night_ that was to _never be spoken of again_. Athos glared at him long enough for his heart to sink even further into his belly before his eyes snapped back to the monarchs. He clapped as soon as the King’s applause began to spread about, slowing his claps in the appropriate time.

_Athos will kill me_ , he thought.

The conversation continued, the German banker’s freedom being granted and the Cardinal naming her Majesty’s mercy was a lesson to them all. The banker stated his own sentiments before leaving once the Queen asked to rest.

Athos’ glare returned in full as they were about to leave, while Aramis was called away by the Queen herself to thank him for the services he’d rendered. That was what the maid said it was about, chattering on about how the Queen must have known before that horrid incident three months prior. Woman’s instinct, the girl claimed.

“I’m sure this child will be strong and just, like its father,” the Queen stated.

Aramis swallowed, trying hard to not think about how this was the sunroom he’d received the rosary in. Where this whole mess _really_ kicked off.

“I pray he will gain his mother’s wisdom as well as the strengths of his father,” Aramis stated, hoping that the child carried nothing of his, no matter how certain she was that he would.

It was a cruel wish but with the circumstances as they were, it was a just one. The secret of this was on par with little Henry. That child would never have to see the torments of Royal Life for both his parents had avoided it. This one, this child that was his, was only partially Royal and would learn nothing of his father’s side of life. None of the truth at least.

“And his father’s courage,” she said.

_Oh, please, let him_ never _gain that_ , Aramis thought.

“I will guard your son with all my strength and heart,” he promised. “He’ll not have a more devoted servant.”

Her smile was bitter and sweet at the same time. “As to be expected of a King’s Musketeer,” she whispered. “God go with you.”

He bowed and left her.

“What have I missed?” Porthos asked once he’d joined them in front of the Palace.  He mounted his horse as Athos claimed him to be saying goodbye to Charlotte Mellendorf.

They had a quick quibble about what they didn’t have after everything. Athos, helpfully, concluded that they may not have glory, money, love, or anything that would make life bearable but at least they had honor. Aramis smiled, decidedly ignoring how d’Artagnan was _still_ avoiding his gaze.

“For honor,” d’Artagnan stated.

“A little money would be nice,” Porthos mumbled.

“Can’t have everything,” Athos sighed.

“Truer words,” d’Artagnan laughed.

“Indeed,” Aramis smiled.


	53. Secrets and Brothers

“Thought I told you to keep him away from the Queen.”

“I wasn’t able to, given the circumstances.”

“Have it known that I _warned_ you,” d’Artagnan hissed from where he was sitting.

Athos glanced towards the boy, feeling as if he’d been dropped into a strange world as the moonlight lit the Spartan room in a low light. D’Artagnan’s olive skin took on a blue hue due to his post under the window.  His neck was in shadow, hiding the scar Athos knew was there in such a way that Athos found it easy to imagine the skin unblemished.

“You warned me,” Athos sighed as he turned his wrist to shake the bottle in his hand.

He’d hoped that he could hide it from the boy, wishing to take away any risk this secret may cost the boy. It didn’t matter that d’Artagnan thought he had enough weight on his shoulders. If taking this secret meant keeping d’Artagnan – and Porthos – safe from any possible reprisal, it would be worth it.

But, d’Artagnan was perceptive. He wasn’t sure _how_ d’Artagnan had picked up on it. It was likely Aramis’ not so subtle way of being overly protective of the Queen or the looks he knew he and Aramis were shooting at each other. He didn’t wish to know the exact time d’Artagnan had learned of this either. It was bad enough that he knew.

“Oliver,” he whispered.

“We can’t say anything,” Athos murmured. “It’s not going to be fair to Porthos but we can’t say anything. It’ll keep him safe.”

D’Artagnan frowned twisting his old scarf in his hands. Athos was beginning to think it was a good thing the boy had stopped wearing the scarf. The poor thing was worn and threadbare. He noted some of the hesitance to continue wearing it stemmed from the boy wishing to distance himself from his past whilst embracing it. Thought, now, d’Artagnan wore the scar itself like a badge of honor.

Like the pauldron, it was a symbol of his overcoming something.

Unlike the pauldron, the scarf was more of a hindrance to him than anything else. It held him in a state of perpetual nervousness. It wasn’t a shield in the traditional sense but Athos could see it for what it was either way.

Like the locket he’d left behind and the wine in his hand, that scarf was something for d’Artagnan to hide behind and simultaneously shove himself into painful memories.

It had also been a bit of a comfort to know where the scarf was during the last two days of not knowing where d’Artagnan was standing while risking his life for all of them… _Again_.

“You still think he’s not that stupid?” d’Artagnan asked.

Athos snorted, shaking his head as he stared at the bottle in his hands. His feet were killing him but he wasn’t about to sit on d’Artagnan’s bed when they were both in such sour moods. It was taking all his willpower to not scream, to not down the entire bottle, to not hold d’Artagnan like a lifeline.

“Learned my lesson once more,” he mumbled, not noticing d’Artagnan had moved until the young man’s hand was wrapped around his wrist and tugging him to the bed. “And it won’t stick, I’m afraid.”

“As am I,” d’Artagnan whispered, pulling Athos down to the mattress and pressing his head against the man’s shoulder. He tried to pretend the bandages around the boy’s ribs weren’t there, that those three simple words didn’t hold so much weight and truth.

“Porthos can’t know,” Athos mumbled. “No one can know. You weren’t supposed to know.”

“I can pull my own weight Athos. I can help.”

“I wish for you to never have to,” Athos sighed, pressing a kiss to the boy’s temple like he used to when they’d stayed in Gascony.

He missed Gascony in the spring. Out of all the things he missed from his past that was high on the list. Having his second little brother nearby ranked a little higher still but both were cast in shadow of seeing d’Artagnan smile again.

“You may wish all you like,” d’Artagnan murmured, dragging the bottle form Athos’ hand and taking a long swig. “It won’t change the fact that I know and am angry at Aramis.”

“You’re not mad at me for not telling you?” Athos asked through a soft chuckle.

“I’m more angered at Aramis for putting you in the situation than I am at you for trying to hide it from me,” d’Artagnan admitted. “You did that to protect Porthos and me. I can support the decision even if it annoys me.”

Athos smiled, looping his arm around the young man’s shoulders and holding him close.

“I’m a truly horrid brother to have,” Athos murmured.

“Nonsense. You’re just human.”

Athos hummed, tugging the scarf out of d’Artagnan’s limp hand and tossing it onto the chair nearby.

“I’m sorry about Madame Bonacieux,” Athos whispered.

“Her husband gave an ultimatum,” d’Artagnan shrugged, taking another swig.

“A rash one,” Athos snarled.

He loosened his hold on d’Artagnan to shed his boots and weapons. They clattered to the floor by the table, the jacket following close after. The bottle was shoved into his hands then, d’Artagnan following his lead in shedding layers. He took a small sip, handing the still mostly full bottle back to d’Artagnan.

They leaned against the wall, d’Artagnan sitting between Athos’ legs because Athos had decided he’d prefer to give the boy some sort of barriers should he continue drinking the bottle on his own – which he was.

“Think he’s bluffing?” Athos asked.

D’Artagnan shrugged. “I do. She might not. I’m not willing to ask her though.”

A wise choice in some respects. It would spare both of them having to say those feelings aloud. It would, however, still leave them separated and powerless to change the situation. There would be no sharing of feelings for while either from what Athos was seeing.

The sweet reunion earlier had been too short for him to really gauge anything from it past the facts that were glaringly obvious. D’Artagnan and Constance looked very good together and their loved seemed true.

Truer than what he’d had with his own wife.

“It was a nice dream while it lasted,” d’Artagnan mumbled. Athos nodded, wrapping his arms a little tighter around the boy as tears fell over his olive cheeks.

Ever so slowly, the silent sobs stopped, d’Artagnan’s breathing evening out as he lost himself to sleep. Athos caught the bottle and finished the last gulp that had been left in it before allowing it to roll off the bed and into the pile of clothes and weapons on the floor. With some effort, he shifted them both so they were horizontal.

There were still a few Musketeers who weren’t caught up on the act yet. A few had been since they’d caught Milady only to set out to save Constance. There were a few who had already tripped over themselves to apologize for anything the young man might have heard.

It hadn’t helped that d’Art was in the middle of dealing with what had happened with Constance. He hadn’t responded to the apologies and Porthos and Aramis had had to glare at the fellows to shove off. Athos had had a few choice words to impart as well.

Tréville had looked livid with the way his men were acting no less; so Athos had no illusions on how Tréville would deal with it. Old Serge and the stable boy had been the only ones who had instantly accepted the dear boy back apparently; hugging and feeding d’Artagnan without a second thought.

There would be others to deal with. The men who had been out of Paris for a mission would return to find the ones who’d been present tiptoeing about. They’d get the whole story automatically and they’d end up knowing who all had screwed up. They’d give their quartet congratulations and move on with life, understanding if d’Artagnan decided not to speak to some of them or other Musketeers.

He sighed, running his fingers through d’Artagnan’s hair to soothe both of them. He lifted his hand to drag a blanket over both of them. As the blanket settled, d’Artagnan pressed against Athos’ side. Athos smiled, tightening his grip on the young man as he shifted to lie on his side. He tucked d’Artagnan’s head under his chin, weaving his fingers into the young man’s hair.

He pressed a kiss to d’Artagnan’s brow, closing his eyes against the worries of the day as he did.

He’d inform Porthos and Aramis of what had happened with Constance and her husband in their absence later. For now, he let himself be rocked to sleep by the steady breathing of his little brother. Things would be rough in the days to come but Athos knew that they would find their way through anything that came their way. He wouldn’t allow himself to lose those he cared for again.

He wouldn’t lose his brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second season based sequel may take a while to appear but I'm hopeful it'll come in time.


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